In At The Death
by Ryuuza Kochou
Summary: Wharton's is having ghost trouble, and Alan Tracy in particular. Who ya gonna call? The Winchesters, of course. Thunderbirds movieverseSupernatural crossover
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I do not own Thunderbirds or Supernatural – they belong to their associates creators and studios. This is a non-profit literary effort.

Warnings: Mild coarse language, intense situations and, of course, supernatural themes.

Authors Notes: Okay, this one's a little strange. Don't worry, I'm still working on my other fic 'Psychics', and should have the next part of it out this week or next. But this one got in the way and took up my attention for a few days. I thought I'd post it as proof I'm still tapping away (grin).

You might notice this story bears some resemblance to Superpower37's story 'Disaster' and indeed, it grew out of the seed that story planted. I did send this to Superpower37 before I posted it, and I post this with her blessing.

Of course, Supernatural's timeline will be set in the same future as the Thunderbirds, but not much will actually change. I'm writing in the movie-verse of Thunderbirds, of course, just cause it worked.

-----------------------------------

Prologue

-----------------------------------

It started with a bad feeling.

No, that wasn't quite true. It had actually started with days of weird nightmares and the odd feeling that he was being glared at from behind wherever he went; a pressured, icy feeling. But it was so vague and the dreams so insubstantial that he only ever realised it afterwards.

But it started _that night_ with a bad feeling.

Alan was asleep. And then he was awake. He blinked a few times at the wall, disorientated, and then rolled on his back to look at the ceiling. He was puzzled – he had no idea why he was awake; he was a light sleeper but not a restless one. The only time he was truly insomniac was that first week back at school, where a combination of jet lag, frustration and deeply buried separation anxiety stole sleep from him.

He glanced at the clock – geez, it was two freakin' fifteen. The wind howled and rattled the windows, and outside there was a rhythmic _snap snap snap_ sound – the plastic sheets stretched over wood frames in the half built extension of the dormitory Alan lived in were being beaten like drums in the storm. Maybe that was what woke him. They had been building onto the dormitories for the last month or so. All through the day and on most weekends there was a constant roar of earthmovers, drills, hammers, welders and trucks. The teachers were complaining – the noise was making classes hell. Even the students complained.

They even made noise at night, it seemed. Annoyed, Alan rose out of his heavily blanketed bed. Jostling for attention it his tired and cranky mind was the thought that Wharton charged an arm, a leg and most of the rest of the body in fees and still had horrendously starched sheets.

Alan felt weary and headachy. For the last few days he'd had an annoying tickle in his throat, and scratchy feeling in his chest – ominous signs of an oncoming winter cold. Alan ran his hands through his hair. He couldn't afford to get sick. He'd been working so hard to stay in the Advanced Course Program; any slacking off, any obstacles meant he would fall behind – they wouldn't let you stay in if you didn't keep your performance up to a certain stringent standard.

He wanted to surprise his family.

Oh _alright_. Rub their faces in it. A little.

Alan looked over at his stuttering but erstwhile roomie, Fermat. The other boy was sprawled out, totally at ease. Clearly whatever had woken him wasn't bothering Fermat.

Alan looked and the clock again. Two seventeen. Alan felt wide awake - the eerie, headachy, tense feeling was back. Sighing, Alan heaved himself out of bed and padded out of the room. He couldn't study or play games without waking Fermat, and he wasn't in the mood to read. Maybe a walk would tire him out.

It was cold as a morgue in the corridor; Alan's breath actually frosted in front of his face. That was another irritation that Alan mulled over as he paced the chilly halls. It was an old building, centuries old and full of draught holes. It never got this cold at home. Alan felt a cold shiver pass along his spine, his headache growing worse. He should get back in bed, this wasn't helping his cold.

Padding back past the stairs that lead to the second floor right near the main entrance, he turned down the small hall that led to his room, right at the front of the ground floor. He rubbed at his forehead. He had no idea why he suddenly felt so keyed up.

Alan jumped at a roar from outside – the roar of a machine that even outdid the howl of the wind. It was familiar. The blonde teenager frowned. What? They couldn't be doing construction at two in the morning on a blustery night like this.

Alan went back to the main doors and levered one of them open. Frigid air and flecks of snow drifted in and Alan peered out into the white, frosty night. The extensions were being built on a rounded hillock the students had been sorry to lose. The green had been ripped up, the hill slowly disked down, and it was now a patchwork of wood and metal frames, weighted down with concrete. Squinting past the light snowfall, Alan could just make out the darker-than-dark piles of girders and wood, the temporary sheds and portable toilets ringing the site, the slight rippling haze of plastic sheets on the frames, and behind, the hulking angles of various movers and shakers parked out the back. There was a constant rumbling growl, and suddenly the headlights on one of the machines lit up. They were pointed straight at the doors, straight at Alan, like super-intense luminous predator eyes. Alan stared back, almost dazed.

The thing – the bulldozer, it turned out - began to roll forwards and down the hill. The crash of the frames being demolished woke Alan up out of his startled trance. He thought maybe some of the kids had gotten in and started the thing, in which case it should stop soon when they shut it off. But the bulldozer barrelled down the slight slope with deceptive speed and unstoppable momentum, beams of light outlined in flakes of snow.

It was heading for the dormitory, Alan realised. And it _wasn't going to stop_.

Alan dove back through the door and slammed it shut. Outside the crashing reached a crescendo as the main structure was, well, bulldozered and the growling got louder.

He darted into his room, and went for Fermat's bed, reaching over to roughly shake the boys shoulder. Fermat came awake blearily and automatically reached for his glasses.

"Alan, wh-wh-wh…" Fermat protested, mumbling slightly.

"Come on, we gotta go!" Alan dragged him out of bed just as the lights flashed in the window above Fermat's bed. Too, too close.

They were at the doorway when the great thumping crash came from the wall. The window shattered and the wall bulged and the multi-tonne machine simply burst through the solid stone.

"Wh-wh-wh…what was that?" Fermat stuttered breathlessly, staring wide eyed at the bulldozer that had just rolled over the wreckage of his bed.

Alan was still backing up. So was the machine, like it was getting ready to turn. He looked at Fermat. Fermat looked at him. "Run!"

Alan ran down the corridors, pounding on doors as he went. In ones and twos boys emerged from their rooms.

"Tracy, what the hell…?" one of them demanded. Roberts, Alan remembered. There was a clamour of voices and a few of them began to move down the hall, curious about the growling roar.

"One of the machines is loose," Alan explained tersely, pounding on the last few doors.

Not just loose, but rolling through the door and out into the hall. There were startled yells as several of the more curious ones retreated from the metal monolith. It ripped it's way through the door and frame and wall of Alan's room and drove into the entrance area. Its headlights illuminated the gaggle of boys in the hallway ominously as it slowly turned, it's growl almost like a spoken threat.

"We have to get out," one guy, Li, quavered, shocked.

"Uh…isn't _that_ the way out," another one, Colsan replied, pointing to the heavy wooden doors that were now blocked by the bulldozer.

The machine revved and buzzed angrily as it positioned itself it the hallway. Clearly it was intent on one thing.

Alan rose to the occasion. "Upstairs! Everyone, quick!"

There was a stampede up the wide wooden steps, slightly hampered by meeting another stampede coming down. Everyone in the dorm was awake now, and there was a clamour of confused voices as everyone tried to figure out what was going on. There was a thump at the foot of the stairs, which at least got everyone moving in the same direction.

They grouped at the second floor and milled there as the thing roared beneath them.

"What the hell…who the hell's driving the damn thing?" Roberts yelled over the noise.

"Who cares? We're safe up here, right?" Li shrugged. "It can't climb stairs."

"Er…" Fermat's soft interruption was barely audible, but Alan knew where it was coming from.  
There were times when he hated being the son of an engineer. It meant at time like these a hateful but unfortunately knowledgeable little voice was going something like this: rolling tread; there's a good reason why we use it on all the earth bound rescue equipment. It was first used for tanks - vehicles designed to take on just about every terrain except empty air and so damn effective that the actual design had changed very little in the last century and a half. Built to roll over walls, swim and climb.

There was a horrid grinding as the machine sanded down the wood of the stairs. The slope slowed it down, but it continued up. The eerie lights shone up the stairwell.

"The r-r-r-roof!" Fermat yelled over the frozen boys on the next floor. "It-it-it'll never f-f-fit up those st-st-st…that way!"

There were only really two storeys to the dorm, plus the basement and the gap in the upper eaves. There was a small stairway up onto the sloping roof technically there for maintenance. Technically every boy in the dorm knew about it, and used it. The crowd of boys headed for it now, lights of the bulldozer on their backs. There was a panicked bottle neck at the far end as boys pushed and shoved to get up the one-way rickety stair. Behind them, the banisters cracked and splintered and the floor groaned painfully as the bulldozer rolled onto it. Alan looked back as the thing came down the hall, a metal fortress silhouetted by the high beams. He couldn't even see inside the cab. It blocked the whole hall, and scraped the walls as it passed.

"Come on, lets go!" Alan hustled furiously and the last of the dorm mates filed up. Alan leapt onto the stairs last, and fled up as the stairs rattled under his feet. The thing pounded against the bottom, held back by the walls and sheer physics. It backed up and charged again, cracking the doorframe and shaking the rickety stairs, sending Alan and everyone else on the stairs to their knees. The stampede became more desperate, yells and shouts and swears filled the air.

At last, Alan was able to haul himself the short ladder at the end up into the open sky, snow drifting through the air like a Christmas snow globe. The cold was biting up here, the wind blew right through the thin material of Alan's sleep gear. About two dozen white, wide eyed faces were ranged across the ridge point and slope of the tiled roof as Alan clambered up and shouldered a space for himself next to Fermat.

There was a bewildered silence filled with harsh breathing.

Suddenly Roberts piped up "What. The hell. Was that?"

They all looked at each other. Finally Alan spoke up. "It's one of the bulldozers from the extension. It just started coming at us. I don't know who's driving it."

"What are we supposed to do now?" another boy asked from up near the top.

Alan looked around hopefully. Around them, squares of light were opening up in the darkness, there was the sound of footsteps against flagstones, faint voices echoes up through the cloisters and courtyards. Wharton Academy was waking up.

Alan wiped the snow from him face, and tried to organise his thoughts into a plan. He was interrupted by the thump.

It was a whole-building thump. You could feel it through skin and bone. Alan reckoned he could even hear the windows vibrate over the wind. There was a rending, tearing crash from the bowels of the dorm, followed by plinks of falling bricks and clinks of plaster chunks and clacks of wood slats falling like matchsticks. It was followed by another and another and another – each thump more ominous as it went, like the footsteps of a monster stalking closer.

And then there was another sound. It was only subtle at first, inaudible over the pounding destruction, but it got louder. It was a grinding, insistent groan.

"A-A-Alan, the d-d-d-do….the structure is we-weakening," Fermat whispered in a strained voice. The snow dotted his hair and clouded his glasses. He was huddled in the corner angle of a gable. Alan couldn't see his expression in the dark, but he could make an educated guess.

"Okay," he whispered back. "Okay," he repeated louder, looking around. There, at the other side of the long house roof, there was a dark, angular mass. The old school gym – every boy in the dorm knew it, had climbed across it and down onto the academy wall, a short cut around the crowded courtyards and a foolproof way to break curfew. It would do. "We have to get off the roof. We'll climb up onto the old gym roof."

"You're freakin' nuts Tracy," Whaldorf snapped. "Climb across there in the dark through the snow? Let's just stay here! They'll get us down."

"The bulldozers taking out the support pillars," Alan explained desperately. "The roof will eventually collapse on itself," there was another thump, punctuated by a deadly shake. "If you wanna stay here, fine, but you'll be sitting on air! Follow me," Alan climbed carefully up the slope near the point and startled to sidle along it. Fermat followed, gripping the back of Alan' night shirt to keep himself steady. Another adrenaline spiking crash drove the others to follow.

"Form a chain!" Alan yelled over his shoulder as he made his slow way across the dorm. It was slow going across the roof. The slope was steep and difficult to walk across, the tiles were smooth and snow was slippery. Alan slipped and scraped his way along it as quickly as he could, focusing on the dark shape of the square gym, and tried not to think about the shaking beneath his numb hands and feet. The groaning was insistent and loud now. The thumping was _following_ them across the building, underneath.

There was a shout and a scream behind him, and Alan twisted around to see one boy (Ivanonik?) fall loose from the chain and tumble down the powdered slope. He hit a gable and clung to it, trying to gain a footing on the icy snow. He was panicking and beginning to slip.

"Fermat, keep going," Alan gasped, and then dove down and across the slope, cold snow cutting at his feet. He slid down to Ivanonik and grabbed the boy before he could take a terminal fall over the gutters and hauled him back, bracing himself on the point of the gable. Ivanonik's vice like grip hurt Alan's half frozen hands, but he didn't let go of the white faced boy. He steadied them on the top of the gable, where they huddled breathing hard.

"Th-th-thanks Alan," Ivanonik quavered, breathing hard.

"Yeah, no sweat," Alan got out between pants.

A mini avalanche of snow slid off the roof and over the side. The thumping was right beneath the two of them, and the building now sounded like a dying animal - howling and screaming. Alan looked across the ridge of the roof, and his heart leapt as he saw the sagging line. Roofs shouldn't do that!

"Tracy! Lets go!" Shouted a voice from the direction of the gym, completely in the dark.

He pushed Ivanonik ahead of him, hustling him back up the slope and along. The thumps were distinctive as they followed – the tiles rattled, their shifting lines pinched at Alan's bare feet. He could feel them dropping away under his feet, less a solid mass than a pit of balls – solid objects that you just sink through. The cracking sound wasn't the bulldozer anymore – it was as loud as thunder, almost an explosion, and the groaning was like nails on a board.

Alan's heart lurched as the ground beneath him seemed to drop by feet at a time. Ivanonik yelped and tried to scramble forwards. Ahead of them the roof was more stable – like most structures it sagged in middle while the ends were held up by the outer walls. Grunting, Alan half lifted the Ivanonik, and yelled "Keep going!" as he used pure adrenaline to fling the boy ahead of the collapse. Alan himself made it two more steps before the sinking floor tripped him up. His chin hit the tiles, and with one last explosive _crack_ the roof was gone and Alan was going with it.

-------------------------

Ivanonik slid and clawed on the snow, panting as he scrambled the last few feet to the wall of the old gym. It was flush up against the dorm, but about five feet higher. Faces lined the edge of the thankfully flat roofed building, Hands grabbed him and hauled him up. Someone kept repeating 'oh my God, oh my God'.

"A-A-Alan!" Fermat was shaking him. "Where's A-Alan?"

"He…I…" Ivanonik was shell-shocked.

The boys looked back at the ragged edged hollow where a clean lined roof point used to be. It stretched almost from one side of the dorm to the other, a gaping, sagging wound.

On the ground in front of both buildings lights were bobbing along the ground, torches were being swung this way and that, voices were yelling. It looked surreal in the silvery darkness. Several beams conglomerated on the on the shivering group on the old gym roof. A voice - the PE coach's, Fermat thought – bellowed up to them "Are you kids okay?"

Fermat ran to the edge and leaned over the parapet. "C-c-call for h-h-h-help!"

----------------------------

Alan groaned as he landed on the second floor in a shower of plasterboard and roof tiles. On the way down he'd been slammed across the midriff by a wood support beam in the roof and pivoted around it as the roof tiles all slid in. His ribs throbbed agonisingly and his hands and feet were red and raw from climbing through the snow. And he was _wet_.

Crawling out from under the debris, Alan used what was left of the bedroom wall he'd landed in to hold himself upright. He looked around – the dorm was a mess of smashed furniture and walls, personal items and clothes were tossed in with bricks, slabs and beams. The building had been gutted – Alan could see all the way through the line of rooms, wreckage crisscrossing the view. Rubbing his chin with one hand, Alan stumbled out of a doorway that was twisted and distorted. In the hall, chunks of snow tumbled down, making wet splats in the dark. At the other end, there was a rattle of movement.

A few boys emerged from the other end of the hall on other side of the dorm - they had retreated to the outer edges of the building as the insane machine had approached, and had missed escaping up to the roof.

"He-hello?" one called.

There was an explosion of noise, the hated howl of the earth mover as it burst through one of the dorm walls that was miraculously intact, coming in at an angle. The cheap plasterboard dividing walls that had been used to allocate the rooms were no obstacle to the thing. It came through closer to the boys at the other end, and stopped.

Alan staggered forward down the hall. "Back up! Back up! Run!" he shouted to the frozen group. The bulldozer backed up slightly, readying itself for a turn.

But it was Alan it swung towards; it's yellow, menacing headlights slowly swung around to pin him. It roared as its engine revved and then the terrible grinding noise started again and it shot forwards toward the lone Tracy.

Alan backed up. The building groaned again.

And then the bulldozer defeated itself. The structure, weakening by every minute, warping as it collapsed, could no longer hold the machine's weight. It dropped down through the bending floor like a seventy tonne stone.

Unfortunately for Alan it took a massive chunk of the floor with them. Alan desperately flung himself flat as the floor bucked up, cracked loose, and then tumbled down as it bent inwards and dropped. Alan lost all sense of direction as he was banged and dropped down past the ground floor and into the basement. He tried desperately to get his body into an upright, feet first position as he was thrown about the debris, and was rewarded by a stabbing sear in his ankle when he landed on the flat metal roof of the cab of the bulldozer. He yelped at the sharp pain, and rolled off the cab on reflex as the rest of the debris rained in through the hole.

Disorientated and covered in contusions and plaster dust, Alan shakily tried to get his bearings in the basement. The weak, clouded moonlight shining in through the twisted hole barely illuminated a few feet around. The high beam headlights sparkled across metal shelves loaded with large sacks and deep plastic tubs.

_Dry goods_, Alan thought muzzily as he stiffly got to his knees, ignoring the hot throbbing in his foot. That's right, they packed them all down here after the construction workers cut a water valve and flooded the kitchen storeroom. They had packed all the equipment and food into every available space. The students had protested losing their workshop and lounge which was basically what the basement was used for, but had gone unheeded.

Since this was a school for growing adolescent boys, there were pyramids of massive cans. Row after row of flour sacks. Bin after bin of bread mix. Three shelves of ten pound bags of table salt, the same of pepper. There was a dusty, spicy musk on everything.

The cans were now tumbling and rolling on the floor in between the debris. A shelf of flour sacks and been tipped over and the dust filled the air. Bread mix tubs were crushed underneath the tread.

The machine backed up, taking out more dry goods as it tried to turn in the cluttered space. Alan scrambled up and limped desperately away, trying to remember where the exit was. The bulldozer adjusted its angle and roared towards him, its shovel gleaming in the weak light. Trestles had been set up to hold the stores, and Alan leapt desperately only to one as the machine hit, sending it skidding back into more shelves. The lights were right in Alan's face, the unforgiving metal of the shovel inches away. From the higher ground and this close, Alan could see inside the cab. He froze and stared.

The shovel came up, tipping the table and sending Alan back against the metal shelves. A thin sharp edge was driven into the length of Alan's upper arm, biting deep and his shoulder cricked slightly as it took his weight. Alan let out a cry at the unexpected pain as the bulldozer reversed again, dropping the split trestle back. The boy stumbled to the ground, cornered in a horseshoe of shelves. The pieces of the trestle had been pushed into the side shelves which were wobbling and swinging, threatening an avalanche.

The bulldozer stopped backing up, and charged again, shovel raised. If that thing hit him, Alan would be quartered by the sharp edges. Desperate, heart racing, he climbed the shelves to get over it. He reached the top as the thing slammed it, crumpling the shelves like a soda can. Alan desperately maintained his grip on the wrenching, swinging metal.

The thing was raising its shovel, trying to crush him like a bug against the wall. There was something terrifying about these machines in action. They could drag tanks, they could lift blocks of steel. They were unstoppable.

In one last ditch move, Alan leapt – he went over the shovel and into the gap between it and the rest of the machine. Squirming into the small space, Alan just found the floor as the shovel came down again.

Alan was blocked in by debris and spent precious seconds shoving it aside. Belly crawling, he pushed forward trying to get out of the contracting gap. He felt his gut tighten as he tried to squeeze out, and felt a rush of panic as the thing squeezed around his chest like a vice.

You're going to die here, Alan Tracy. Just like that. No heroism, no bravery, no brilliant escapes. No getting your opponent weak. No last minute rescue.

_I want my Dad_, Alan thought as the thing squeezed tighter. Tears crept out from beneath his eyelids. _I want my family. I want to go home. I love you guys_…

The wobbling shelves toppled over the machine, the bags and sacks ripping open. Salt cascaded down like rough snow, and everything stopped.

The engine died. The headlights winked out. The noise switched off. Alan, pinned, panted out past the tight weight on his chest, waiting tensely for it to start again. The pure terror started to fade as the machine stayed cold and dead, and empty.

Alan closed his eyes, his head lolling painfully onto the floor, trying to think of what to do next.

----------------------------------------

"_Calling International Rescue. Calling International Rescue."_

John stumbled out of his bedroom of the space station and made it to his chair on the second go. Damn, it was too early for this.

Suddenly switching to business mode, John opened the communications system up and prepared a trace with a few efficient keystrokes.

"This is International Rescue, go ahead please," John spoke calmly into the mike.

"_Oh thank God, I didn't think this would work!"_

John sighed. If he'd had a dollar for every time he's heard that…

"_My name is Joseph Harperton, I am the administrator of a school in Massachusetts_," the man, Mr Harperton began. _"We've had an incident, and we need assistance."_

"What's the situation Mr Harperton?" John replied briskly. "Be as detailed as you can – situation, casualties, terrain, everything." Something was tugging at John, some little detail. He pushed it aside.

"_Well, I'm not clear on the details, but one of our dormitories has collapsed. A good many of our students escaped across the roof, but there are a few boys trapped inside the building. I think the structure is unstable, the fire fighters say it's too unstable to just walk in, and the wind is preventing any air rescue. They suggested I call you."_

John was getting a bad feeling. "How did the collapse happen?"

"_Well, as I said, we're unclear on the details. It seems some of the construction equipment rolled loose into the building. We've been doing extensions of our buildings recently."_ Mr Harperton sounded puzzled by it.

Whatever it was that was getting to John was really nagging at him now. "What is your exact location, Mr Harperton? Can you tell me how many students are missing?"

Mr Harperton told him.

----------------------------------------

The alarm shrilled out across Tracy Island, loud and clear. Jeff barely had time to activate the communications panel before his boys all filed in, dripping wet from being called in from the pool.

"What up John?" Jeff put him on screen and stopped to stare. John was dead white.  
_"Dad, we've got an emergency call_," John said quickly. "_From Wharton's._"

Jeff blinked. Then he scowled. "Wharton _Academy_?"

Scott sucked in a breath. "Alan?"

"_I don't know. The principal made the call on the recommendation of emergency services. One of the dormitories has collapsed."_

"Casualties?" Gordon demanded.

"_They haven't found any bodies. Apparently most of the boys climbed onto the roof and onto the next building to escape_."

"The _roof_?" Virgil repeated, confused. "They escaped the collapse by going up, not out?"

John nodded on the screen. "_According to the caller one of the earth movers from the construction site next door rolled right through the front door._"

Jeff shook his head. "Alright, save the exposition for when we're airborne. Boys, suit up and prepare the Mole and the rescue platform. Go, now!" he barked.

Jeff turned to the door as the boys dove for their silos, and faced a grim Brains watching from the door.

"I-I-I would like t-t-t-to g-g-g…accompany the mission this time, sir," Brains said quietly.

Jeff sighed. There were plenty of good reasons why he shouldn't go – recognition risk being among the top ten – but unfortunately all the same reasons applied to Jeff, and there was no way he was being left behind.

"Head for the elevator, Brains. And stay in Thunderbird Two."

"FAB Mr T-Tracy."

---------------------------------------

Alan tried to drift for a while, and it wasn't easy. He was pinned like a flower pressed into a book, his ribs hurt and it was hard to breathe. His ankle still throbbed unhappily but the worst bit was the gash running down his arm. Not an ignorable wound to begin with, Alan had been trapped lying on his left side and the wound was on his right arm – and had been showered in salt. He was getting an in depth demonstration of the old adage 'rub salt in to a wound'. It _burned_. What was worse was that unlike antiseptic it burn didn't fade – it just kept burning and burning.

In added insult to injury, it was snowing; right on Alan's head, and nowhere else. It drifted and tumbled through various chutes and holes, and ended up right there. It was almost ironic.

Alan had, painfully, managed to free his left arm – his right was completely pinned. He couldn't move any further, however. Something was digging relentlessly into his back, and no matter how he tried to move it was still in there.

Stuck here in pain and cold, Alan tried to think how this could have happened. In the space of about ten minutes he'd gone from being asleep to being pinned beneath a multi tonne machine after falling from the roof to the basement of his own dormitory. It had all happened so fast it had left Alan disorientated and bewildered.

He wished his Dad was here. He knew that made him sound about four years old, but he really, really wished they were here. Somewhere in his hazy, cold-induced trance he'd come awake at a roar from overhead. He thought he'd heard Thunderbird One, but after listening hopefully for an hour he hadn't heard anything else, and had drifted again.

The rest of the time he just tried to figure the number one mystery in this whole disaster.

That, and tried not to think about how angry Dad was going to be this time.

He tiredly poked and the wreckage around him, looking for a way out. Something cracked into his head.

Grunting, he reached up to rub his temple as whatever it was clattered to the ground over his head. He felt around, and his hand closed around a cell phone.

Or a part of one, anyway. The front piece had been popped off and the screen was cracked. The back piece was gone too, but lucky for Alan he found the battery feeling around above his head.

It was hard work doing it in the dark and one handed, but Alan managed to get the battery into the rest of it and hold it in. The battery fell out several times as he tried to hit the tiny nodes that were the buttons stripped of the front piece of the phone. Frustrated but determined, Alan kept trying. Eventually he was rewarded why a weak, broken light from the messed up screen. He worked mostly by feel and memory to dial the number – he didn't have any actual reference than the weak points of light under the small nodes. It took him almost fifteen minutes just to dial a number he could have done in two seconds under better circumstances. He nearly cried when he heard it ringing – it was so faint and the signal crackled, but it was there like a prayer.

It kept ringing, and eventually the tone of the ringing changed as the lines switched. Alan closed his eyes. They couldn't be _out_…

"_Hello, Tracy residence_," a pleasant, familiar voice asked.

"John!" God, was that his voice? It was cracked and quavery and rough from misuse. "Can you hear me? John?" he croaked out.

"_Alan? Is that you?"_ John sounded shocked and worried. "_Are you okay? Where are you? We heard about the collapse and the others are on their way. Were you in the building that fell?_"

"Yeah," Alan choked out. "I still am. I…fell from the roof through the basement. I…can't climb out, John. I'm stuck."

"_Okay, okay. Just stay calm for me, Sprout, we'll get you out. It's okay_," John's voice had taken on a crooning quality Alan hadn't heard in years. "_Can you tell me where exactly you are? Are you hurt?_"

"I'm near where the bulldozer went through. It's snowing," Alan tried to orientate his position in the building. His room was on the north side, and old gym was on the west side so that would put him…"I think I'm on the south west…John? John, can you hear me?" Alan was nearly shouting into the phone, white static drowned the line.

"_Al…e…yo…eak…an…he…"_

The phone died. Alan stared at it angrily, and nearly flung at away. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on breathing through his tight chest.

At least he'd gotten through.

----------------------------------

As per SOP, Thunderbird One was the first on the scene.

Scott was frustrated and worried, which was a dangerous combination in the eldest Tracy son. It made him unforgivingly efficient. Already he'd offended two fire chiefs and the head of the construction company in charge of the extensions. In this state Scott Tracy didn't suffer fools.

He'd helped get the kids on the roof down, though; and had been in the glad position to see for himself that Fermat was unhurt and safe. He'd tried to tell Scott something but Scott had shook his head surreptitiously before he'd opened his mouth. While he was here in uniform, Fermat couldn't know him.

He'd gotten a terrifying story from the kids as they were processed in triage in the main school building. According to various shell-shocked victims some insane individual had driven an industrial earthmover straight through the wall of the dorm and had chased the students up to the roof. Once unable to reach them, it had proceeded to demolish the second floor, taking out all the support structures. The dorm had collapsed under the weight of its own roof.

Scott looked everywhere for Alan, every face was scanned, the crowd invisibly searched from Thunderbird One. Nothing. Scott's most terrible fear seemed to be justified. Alan was still in the building, somewhere.

Scott looked at the building. Even from the distance you could see there was something wrong with the structure. The walls bulged and leaned, the whole shape was distorted. The fire fighters had set up floodlights around the accident zone, and they shone through windows, glinting across the snow drifting in through the massive wound in the roof. The air was frigid – ah, Massachusetts winter at midnight, how he'd never missed it. If Alan was really in there, he'd be very cold by now. Cold, maybe hurt. Scott forced himself to stop grinding his teeth.

He was so wound up that when his cell phone rang he jumped in a very undignified way. He snapped it open. "Yes?"

"_Hang on I'm just…Scott?_"

Scott looked around carefully before replying. "John? Any news?"

"_Very good question Scotty,_" his fathers voice came over the line too.

Scott wasn't even going to ask how John had finagled a conference call between a space station, a cell phone and a Thunderbird. "What's your ETA?"

"_We'll be another twenty two minutes_," Virgil confirmed with accuracy.

That was a fast journey for the heavy tanker. They must be burning out the engines. Jeff continued. "_Scott, what's the situation? Have they found Alan or Fermat?_"

"I took Fermat of the roof myself. He's fine, just a little shaken up. I haven't found Alan yet. It's really bad."

"_I found Alan,_" John cut in. "_He called me._"

"_What_?" both Scott's and Jeff's response was perfectly timed.

"_He called me on a cell phone – I traced the number, it's not his. He must have dug it out of the wreckage._"

"_Put him on_, _John," _Jeff ordered crisply.

"_I can't Dad – the line cut. I tried calling it back but I'm not getting through. I'm trying other numbers now just in case there's another. Most of them are switched off, some are just ringing. I did get through to a phone – there's a group of students trapped in the north west corner of the building, in one of the rooms._"

"_What about Alan?_" Jeff demanded. Scott pressed the phone to his ear, unwilling to miss any details.

"_He said he was in the basement_," John reported. "_All I got out of him was that he was in there and he was stuck – he's either blocked from the exit or he can't move._"

"What else?" Scott asked as Jeff took a breath. "Is he hurt?"

"_I don't know Scott,_" John sounded frustrated. "_The line went dead before I could get more than that. He seemed lucid. Scared and lucid._"

Jeff broke in, his voice hard. "_Prepare for our arrival Scott. Clear a space on any large field nearby and make sure there's a path to the dorms wide enough for the Mole_."

"FAB," Scott said and signed off. He waved the attention of a fire chief, and he came forward warily. There was something about standing in the shadow of the sleek Thunderbird that put men off.

"What now?" was the brusque greeting. This fire chief had not been impressed by International Rescue's customer service skills so far.

"Get your trucks moving," Scott ordered. "Get everyone off the football field and clear a line to the accident zone. My buddies are coming and they need space for their gear."

"Look fella, it just ain't gonna happen like that. The roads to and from the school are clogged, the parking lots are full and the access paths weren't designed for this. We've having enough trouble shuffling equipment as it is, no way can the area take any more. I reckon you're gonna wanna think up another way, and maybe consider an attitude adjustment in the process. I been doin' this for nearly twenty years, I know my job," the fire chief glared out from his heavy brows.

Scott didn't flinch, and fixed the man with a steely stare. "Fine. Excellent argument. Now here's something for you to consider," he replied coldly. "I know you know your job. It's clear to me that you know what you're doing. And because you know what you're doing, you knew the minute you were in over your head. You called _us_ in. You wanted _our_ help, and we came. You can't just turn around now and say we've got to do it your way – if you could pull this off on your own we wouldn't be here. There are kids in that building, sir, and I don't need to be an engineer to know that one stiff breeze will turn what's left of it into a pile of rubble. The longer we stand out here having a pissing match, the longer those kids are trapped in there, cold and in the dark, maybe injured, maybe dying. We're already on our way – you can't send us away now. You won't, because then it's on your head if that building goes over with those kids inside. The bottom line? Move your trucks and personnel, or we'll simply land on top of them. Don't think we won't – a few fire engines aren't worth a single human life. Your choice mister. You got fifteen minutes."

Scott turned away and stalked back into his machine, furious and frustrated. _If you keep us out of there the few seconds it would take to save my brothers life, so help me it'll be the last mistake you ever make_.

--------------------------------------------

As it turned out, everything ran smoothly for the Thunderbirds. The trucks were moved into the construction site, or what was left of it. Thunderbird Two swung in for a smooth landing on the cheers of students who were lining the cloisters and balconies, and peering out of windows and grouping at the barriers. They were getting to see modern day heroes up close – it was not to be missed.

Usually an adoring public would bring out many amused cracks and wry comments from Gordon, who was eternally amused by normal people's obsession with the Thunderbirds, but tonight he fidgeted in his chair, trying not to give in to his tension. When he was on the ground and in action he knew he'd be riding the adrenaline curve like a pro, all business and control, but waiting helplessly was never something he did very well.

Actually, no Tracy did it well. Jeff's hands were white knuckled on the steering column, and Virgil, who if he couldn't pilot then he would only suffer to be co-pilot of the heavy 'bird, was moving back and forth between the cockpit and the open bays at the back, where he was filling his time helping Brains stock the Mole with any equipment they might need. Gordon would wager his trust fund that Scott was handling the pressure as only Scott knew – giving orders, planning out details to the nth degree, and generally taking control wherever he could.

Virgil came back for the landing and they bumped gently on the ground. Jeff prised his hands loose from the controls and switched on the intercom. "Brains, did you look into the structure for me?"

"Yes Mr T-Tracy," Brains voice came from the bays. "I have s-s-studied the uh…building p-p-p-p…blueprints. It's very old, Mr Tracy. The inner a-a-allotments are more r-r-re-re...new, but the first f-f-floor and the basement were solidly built. The n-n-n-northern wall of the basement was cut r-r-right out of the r-r-r-rock of the hillock. There should be enough support there to, uh, drill through w-w-without disturbing the r-r-rest of the structure."

"FAB. You heard the man, boys," Jeff turned to Gordon and Virgil. "Take the Mole down and around to the northern face. Do infrared scans before you get close, the last thing we need is for you to run into a trapped student." Jeff quickly thought of his youngest son hanging like a bauble over the spinning Mole in the vault of the Bank of London, then just as quickly tried not to think of it. "Brains and I will do a sound sweep of the building, see if we can't pinpoint the position of the trapped students on the second floor. Get going. And boys?" Jeff stopped them as they began to rise. "I know you're worried about Alan, I know this isn't a normal mission; but I need you to remember that there are other people in danger here. We need to get them _all_ out. Understand?"

"FAB." "FAB"

--------------------------------------

"_What's going on Scott_?" John didn't even greet him as Scott picked up the phone.

Scott watched as the Mole rolled out of Thunderbird Two, and slowly began a complicated trek around the stricken former dorm. "Virgil and Gordon are going in through the basement with the Mole. Hopefully they'll be able to get Alan out and climb up to the other kids as well. Any luck with the phones?"

"_I tried every number in that dorm at least half a dozen times,"_ John sighed, frustrated. "_Most of them ring out or go to voicemail, the rest are switched off. I got two answers, one from a student who already escaped the dorm, and one from the students trapped on the second floor._" Scott could almost see the annoyed, tense shrug that John gave a couple of thousand miles above. "_I can't reach Alan again, not like before. Tell the others that he said that he was near where the bulldozer went through. He should be next to the machine, wherever it is._"

"FAB. Thanks for the tip," Scott replied, watching tensely through the cockpit window of Thunderbird One as the Mole started it's impressive tilt-and-spin movement, throwing up a spray of dirt and gravel. The mission had begun.

"_Relax Scott_," John voice came quietly over the line. "_We'll get him out. It'll be fine._"

Scott felt like a vice had been clamped around his torso and stomach. He wanted to believe it, desperately. He watched the snow tumble and cling down the nose cone of his 'bird, and tried not to let the feeling overwhelm him.

The Mole vanished into the dark, cold earth.

------------------------------------------

The industrial diamond tipped augers cut through the mildly hard sediment and packed earth easily enough. Driving by sonar and infrared alone, Virgil piloted it in a careful swoop under the construction hillock and facing the northern wall. Carefully adjusting the depth, Virgil moved the heavy digger close into the basement wall, and stopped.

"Did you do a sweep?" Virgil asked as he primed the spinners for the final drilling.

"Yeah," Gordon replied impatiently. "All clear past the final wall, we should be able to dig in safely."

Virgil hesitated. "Are you sure?"

Gordon's head whipped around to glare at him. "Are you _nuts_? You think I wanna clean my little brother off the tread? I'm freakin' _sure,_ okay? I did it three times."

"Okay, okay," Virgil raised a placating hand. "FAB." He thumbed his mike. "Thunderbird Two, this is the Mole. We're going into the Accident Zone."

"_FAB_," Jeff's voice came through.

The Mole ground through the last of the rock and out into empty space. The noise became less a muffled grind than a loud rumble as the augers ran out of earth to dig. Virgil edged it in just far enough to get clearance for the side door, but left it there.

_Alan was having a nightmare. He remembered toddling into his father's workshop in their old house when he was about three. He often ended up in there, past various child locks and barriers (much to his fathers and brothers dismay), simply because the gleaming tools and strange, half built machines had fascinated him at that age. When he couldn't sleep or had nightmares he would find his way down there where his father would work into the wee hours of the morning, trying to exhaust himself, distract himself, anything to keep away the grief and pain of losing his wife – two years after the event and it was still a raw wound, though Alan had been too young to see it back then. He remembered his Dad gently setting him on a clear space on the bench next to the vice still wrapped in a bunny blanket, and gently chatter to him as he worked about any old thing. It was a rare quiet time shared between Jeff and Alan, a difficult thing to accomplish in between running a multinational corporation and large household. _

_Alan dreaming his father was putting him into the vice, saying something about how this would help him grow. It seemed so much bigger than he remembered. It squeezed and squeezed until Alan was gasping for air…_

And he woke up breathing past a tight vice around his chest and an annoying pain in his back and arm. And the roar of a machine….

_It's happening again!_ Alan's whole, aching body tensed, his breath became choked as he waited for the sound of his bones cracking to shards.

But suddenly the sound stopped again, leaving behind only the rustle of falling dust. Alan's eyes squeezed shut and his head lolled wearily on the ground. His heart was pounding so loud it whited out all other sound.

Gordon popped open the hatch and pulled himself out, giving a random shelf a shove to make way into the pitch black basement. From inside, Virgil switched on the headlights, illuminating row after row of shelving shot through with trestle tables at odd corners. Through the shelving Gordon could see odd shapes and jagged edges at the far end of the large basement. Looked like a likely place to start.

"I'll get the gear ready," Virgil said, sticking his head out after Gordon and passing him a medic pack. "Go and find him, and call back."

"FAB."

It was tougher going than it looked. The darkness and cluttered storage made for a difficult, obstacle ridden journey with just a flashlight and a few glow sticks to dropped on the path behind him. When he got closer to the cave in several rows of shelves had been tipped over, and various chunks of ceiling and support beams stuck up at all angles. Gordon clambered over it all, yelling Alan's name.

"Alan? Alan! Come on Sprout, I'm not in the mood for hide and seek! Alan!" Gordon spotted the bulky earth mover under a dusting of debris and salt. He worked his way toward it. "Alan…." _Please answer me_ hovered at the tip of his tongue and ran through his increasingly frantic mind.

The roaring in Alan's ears faded slightly as his foggy, cold dulled mind became aware that he wasn't being crushed and the engine roar had stopped again. Gasping and wheezing, he only noticed the beloved familiar voice when it was almost on top of him, thumping around somewhere behind the metal monolith.

Alan tried to speak, but his voice was half frozen and it came out a croak. Swallowing painfully, he tried again. "'m 'ere. _Here!_"

"Alan!" Gordon hauled himself up on the roof of the bulldozer, slipping slightly in the salt as he crawled over it. "Hell, Sprout, you picked a fine time to play tonka trucks." Gordon's relief burst like a bubble as he looked over and spotted his brother. "Oh shit. _Shit_!" he gasped.

"What!" Virgil yelled from where he was following.

"_Gordon, what is it?_" Jeff's voice came over the mike.

"Virgil, bring the cutting gear! He's not next to it! He's _underneath _the damn thing!"

------------------------------------------

There were a tense few minutes in Thunderbird One, Two and Five as their respective pilots froze in dread at Gordon's pronouncement. They relaxed slightly when Gordon reported back that it wasn't as bad as his approach angle had made it appear.

"_He's squished in between the shovel and the cabin, Dad, a tight squeeze. We're going to have to cut the whole shovel away to get him out._" Gordon voice abruptly took on a yelling tone as he carried on a second conversation with his brother. "_Virgil! Bring a pallet of blankets with you when you come! It's freakin' cold down here!_"

Jeff heard some low mumbling from Virgil's mike along the lines of '_sure Gordon, I'll just carry it in my two extra hands_' as Gordon switched back to talking to Jeff. "_This might take a while, Dad, it's a heavy industry machine – not easy to just take apart._"

"Is Alan okay? How badly is he hurt?" Scott's anxious voice broke through the line before Jeff could reply.

"_I'm just giving him a check now, I'll call back in a minute._" Gordon reported.

"FAB. One minute," Jeff said, and signed off.

"Mr T-T-Tracy?" Brains appeared from the back and a quick pace. "O-o-o-one of the sc-scanners has picked up an emergency c-c-call from the s-s-south side of the building. An el-electrical, uh, fire has started on the o-o-other side of the zone. The fire trucks ca-ca-ca…are unable to, uh, manoeuvre around through the con-con-con…extensions."

Jeff cursed. It wasn't like the needed any more problems. He opened up a channel. "Thunderbird One, come in."

"_Thunderbird One here. Go ahead Thunderbird Two._"

"Come round to Thunderbird Two Scotty, I need you to command the Firefly. There's a fire on the south side," Jeff ordered.

"_Damn. FAB Thunderbird Two. On my way_." Scott replied dutifully. Maybe it was for the best. Sitting and waiting was becoming unbearable.

"Brains, prep the Firefly," Jeff turned back to the scientist.

"FAB," Brains nodded, and exited again, heading back to the pod.

Jeff let out a frustrated breath, and re-opened communication. "Gordon, it's been a minute. How is he?"

----------------------------------------------

_Not good_, Gordon thought to himself as he gently brushed the snow and salt off Alan's pallid face. "Okay kiddo, where does it hurt?"

"mmhm," Alan was having trouble focusing. Gordon patted his face and rubbed his cold bare arm.

"Come on, kid. Up and at 'em."

There was a clattering sound as Virgil hauled the equipment up over the cab. He sidled across the tread and over to the pool of light where Gordon bent over Alan. "How is he?" he asked Gordon anxiously.

"Gord'n?" Alan mumbled as he became more aware. "V'gil?"

"In the flesh," Gordon grinned reassuringly, stroking the blonde hair. "Come on Alan, you've gotta concentrate for me now. You gotta tell me where it hurts."

"Alan," Virgil asked in a tone of someone expecting something bad. "Is any part of you…under the tread?"

"Wha…? No, uh-uh," Alan shook his head, trying to clear the fog. "'m just stuck."

Gordon and Virgil share a look of double relief. It was something.

"Where are you hurt, kid?" Gordon repeated gently, brushing the hair out of his eyes.

"My arm…my ribs hurt, it's hard to breathe," Alan gasped. "I think my foot broke when I fell through."

Gordon lay down at an angle and ferreted his hand in as far as he could through a small gap between the shovel and Alan near where Alan's stomach was and prodded the chilled skin as best he could. Virgil swung a light over the other side, checking Alan's foot through the hole at the other end. He hissed. "Oh yeah, definitely twisted the wrong way," he called to Gordon. "Pass me a blanket, will you? A thermal. His toes are blue."  
Gordon chucked the blanket over as he thumbed his mike, moving to grip Alan's hand. "Thunderbird Two, come in."

"_Well_?" His father demanded impatiently.

"It's not bad, considering the situation. One fractured or broken ankle, maybe some cracked or broken ribs," Gordon peered in to the tiny gap where Alan's other arm was pinned. "One, whoa, mighty impressive gash on his arm, but it's not gushing." The light caught some glittering white particles that looked too dry to be snow crusted over everything. Gordon drew a finger across the shovel edge and sniffed the stuff. He tasted it. Damn, salt? Ouch. "I checked his abdomen as best I could," he continued, back on to business. "No distension. He's not coughing up blood, so if he's bleeding inside he's doing it slow." Gordon bit his lip. "Alan? Does you're head hurt? Is your vision okay?"

"Yeah, 's fine. Didn't hit m'head," Alan replied tiredly.

"No head wounds," Gordon reported back, rubbing a gloved thumb over the back of Alan's hand. "And it's colder than the North Sea down here, right kid?"

"Yeah."

"_Okay_," Jeff didn't sound happy at all. "_Bundle him up. Virgil, do you have everything you need? Can you cut the shovel away with what you have?_"

"Affirmative. But it'll take time, even with the circular saw just cutting though the hydraulic connectors," Virgil answered.

"_Start quickly,_" Jeff ordered. "_Gordon, get the climbing gear out. I need you to go to the second floor and get the other students down to the Mole, if you can._"

"But…" Gordon protested breathlessly. He couldn't just leave Alan…

"_Gordon, that's an order_," Jeff cut in firmly. And that was it, really. Dad had made it very clear when International Rescue started that they either followed orders in the field, or they were out of the family business. "_Virgil will stay with Alan. He's rated to use the cutting gear, he's used it more than you. I need you to get up there – A fire has started._" Jeff added in consolation.

Gordon cursed. He could feel Virgil giving him a look through the cabin window where he was disabling the machine for safety. Now was not the time. "FAB," he replied eventually.

"Okay Sprout, I gotta go to work," Gordon tried to smile at his trapped, watchful sibling. "Give Virgil hell. It's your duty."

Virgil snorted as Alan wheezed out a chuckle. "Watch that f-first step," he recommended as Gordon wrapped him in a blanket and stuffed some more into the gaps he could reach. Virgil was out of the cab and unfolding a rustling heavy tarp and uncovering the nasty looking silver blades of the industrial cutters. "It's a doozy."

Gordon laughed as he rubbed Alan's hair. "FAB."

-------------------------------------

As Scott drove the compact fire fighting machine an a trundling circle around the dorm to the smoking, glowing fire on the south side, carefully piloting it through the courtyard, Gordon clambered up the twisted basement stairs and crept along the weakened ground floor, and Virgil padded Alan with as many blankets as possible before covering him with heavy, fireproof pieces of tarp designed to protect him from the sparks, keeping up a string of chatter to the exhausted boy as he did.

Jeff sat tensely in Thunderbird Two, the reluctant leader of his empire, running the three operations at once.

"_Thunderbird Two, this is Firefly_," Scott called in.

"Go ahead Scott," Jeff replied, tapping impatient beats on the steering column.

"_I'm here and we're trying to douse it, but it's slow going. I can't use too much pressure or I'll damage the structure more. It's moving along the wiring Dad. It's old._"

"Keep at it Scott. Once the kids are out, we won't have to worry so much about the structure."

"_FAB_."

"_Thunderbird Two, come in_," Virgil's voice came over next. "_I am preparing to cut. I won't be in communication with the welding mask on and the saw going._"

"Report in every ten minutes," Jeff ordered. "Watch your fingers. Thunderbird Two out." It was an old joke.

"_Thunderbird Two, do you read me_?" Gordon's timing was nearly perfect.

"Go ahead Gordon," Jeff sighed.

"_I found the kids. They're okay, just a little cold. I had to climb up with crampons and grapnels through the hole – the stairs were shot. I don't recommend taking them back down through the basement, Thunderbird Two. It was hard going for me, and I've done this before. The floor is…barely that, actually_," Gordon elucidated. "_It'll be too risky going down._"

"What options do we have?" Jeff asked.

"_Well,"_ Gordon sent back, sounding speculative. "_The hole in the roof it pretty big, and the holes through to the basement don't line up exactly with the one in the roof. I reckon if you go high enough you could safely drop the rescue platform right in through the hole without the exhaust rattling the building much._"

"FAB. We'll lift off right now, get them into a safe rendezvous position," Jeff replied decisively. He could be forgiven, perhaps, for the eagerness which he jumped at the opportunity for action. He may have seemed more patient than his sons, but that was just the attrition of age. He was just as bad as them underneath.

He prepared the massive green machine for take off, trying not to think of his youngest trapped below.

--------------------------------------

Virgil had decided to start at the end of the shovel where Alan's feet were. There was more space to cut and Alan could curl his legs just enough to leave the two hydraulic spokes that lifted and stretched the shovel completely clear. Cutting the other two would be more problematic – especially the bottom one. It crossed flush across Alan's arm and shoulder. There were a few little gaps that he could use to cut right through the metal without cutting Alan, but the clearance would be tiny – down to quarters of inches. When he made that cut, he would be a tiny slip away from turning Alan into an amputee. Or a corpse.

He had to build up to that one.

As he'd covered Alan with the protective tarp, he'd put in a call to John, up in the station. He wouldn't be able to hear Alan with the saw going, and he didn't want his little brother to think he was alone. Dad was busy with Gordon and Scott, so John was it.

"Just keep him calm, John, keep him talking. It's cold and he's injured – I don't want him to pass out while I'm working. I've got the walkie-talkie nearby if you need to talk to me."

He'd unhooked his headset and gently hooked it over Alan's head. He'd balled up a blanket so Alan could pillow his head on it. He'd stuffed blankets into every gap he could find, and had immobilised the injured foot. He'd done everything possible to make his little brother as comfortable as possible, which wasn't much.

"Here, get bored by John for a while," Virgil said as he settled him and grabbed the tarp that had been draped over his torso. Then he stopped, and put a hand on either side of Alan's face. "Alan, I'll be as quick as I can, but I need you to stay awake, okay? Just stay awake. We'll have you out and annoying Scott in no time. Promise."

Alan let out a breath and nodded against Virgil's hands. "Okay. But y-y-y-you're not making it…easy. John's….pretty boring."

Virgil chuckled as he heard an indignant '_I heard that_,' from the walkie-talkie, and covered Alan completely with the tarp. Like putting a sheet over a body, an irritatingly morbid little voice insisted on commenting. Virgil stepped on it, and ground his heels in for good measure.

In the dark, slightly stuffy cave under the tarp, Alan turned his head trying to find a comfortable spot. He wasn't sure if he was happy for the warmth slowly being drawn out by the blankets or not – yes, the cold was fierce and deadly but the blissful numbness from his injuries was a blessing. Now his circulation was returning and his body was stiff and cramped. Relieved from one discomfort and shoved into another. Alan was thoroughly miserable.

"_I am not boring_," a mildly insulted John said through the headset.

Miserable, and yet he felt so much better than he ever had before, now that the gang was all here. "Y'stare at stars all day. Night. Y'are," he replied, slurring.

"_Try it. It's fun_," John defended. He continued. "_So, here we are again, Sprout. I get a call from a school in Massachusetts, and I think to myself 'what are the chances Alan dead smack in the middle of this?' I calculated it to be the same likelihood as the sun rising. Seriously, I got the calculations right here._"

"Shut up, John," Alan muttered. Then he sighed. Something that had been weighing on him, other than the bulldozer, loomed to the front of his attention. You could always talk to John. "John….is Dad…mad?"

"_What?_" John sounded startled. "_What kind of question is that? Dad's worried about you, we all are, Sprout._"

Alan tried to get his sluggish thoughts to speed up. "W-W-Well as c-c-complete destruction goes th-th-this is school number two…"

He felt a breath of laughter in his ear. "_Yeah, there is that._"

Alan kept going back to his fear. Now that his family was here and he was safe, he had the luxury of being embarrassed and worried. "But….but…Dad's not mad? I…I didn't have a-a-anything to d-d-do with this, I swear," for some reason it seemed so important that they know this. "I…I think I messed up ag-ag-again, but I didn't mean to." Alan would have been shocked to realise how small his voice sounded.

John was. "_Alan what…Alan, no one's mad at you. Geez, no one was mad at you the last time, either. I mean, we tease you about it all the time, but we all know it was an accident. This isn't your fault, we never thought that it was! You know I didn't mean anything with that crack earlier, I never thought you were making trouble._"

Alan blinked. He was so tired. "I-I-It's just that it k-k-keeps happening. I k-k-keep doing the wrong things. You g-g-guys wouldn't have ended up like th-this," Alan miserably pulled the tarp closer around him, shivering. "You g-guys wouldn't h've gotten r-r-run around the island b-b-by the Hood."

"_Alan, we were captured by the Hood, remember? You took him out. You foiled him. I don't think that comes under the heading of 'wrong'_," John said gently, trying to figure out where this sudden bout of self flagellation had come from. "_Alan, are you okay?_"

"I'm c'ld. I'm s-so sorry, John. Tell D-D-Dad I'm so so-so-sorry."

-----------------------------------------

It was a delicate task, getting the rescue platform into the hole in the roof. Like those amusement park games, it was much harder than it looked at first.

But Jeff Tracy wasn't a decorated ex-Air Force pilot for nothing. After a few tense bumps and rattles the pod dropped neatly through the hole. It took time to lead the five boys onto the platform – Gordon lead them one at a time out of the corner they huddled in, carefully choosing each footstep on the shaky floor, through the debris, and latterly the smoke, getting them all aboard by the safest possible means.

Gordon couldn't honestly say he hadn't been tempted to cut corners, though.

Coughing, covered in dust and soot, pulled the last boy onto the platform and settled him safely on the floor.

"_Gordon? Are you done in there?_" John's anxious voice came over the headset.

Gordon coughed and choked in the smoke. He could feel the heat of the fire under his feet – not potent or burning, but definitely there. "Yeah, we're good. We're about to blow this joint." He grinned at the boys through his visor.

"_I think you need to get back downstairs,_" John's tone was tense. "_I think Alan's going into shock. Virgil's busy cutting and I don't think we should stop him. I really think he needs to talk to someone face to face._"

"FAB," Gordon replied tersely. "Thunderbird Two, take 'em up. I'm going back down."

"_FAB. Watch yourself_," his father warned.

As the pod was winched up through the hole to the expertly hovering Thunderbird Two, and Gordon headed back down the hole at a reckless speed, disregarding any of the usual safety measures and clambering free hand down the line.

He landed in water.

The fire fighters had been pumping water into the building, and it streamed ankle deep down through the halls and rooms. Sloshing through it, Gordon fought his way through floating debris and down the waterfall that were the narrow basement steps.

At least they were easier to find this time. The sparks thrown up by the saw were a bright disco light in the dank cellar, and there was sound of water dripping. It was literally raining indoors as the runoff from the fire trucks found their way down the hole.

Virgil was on the third of the four hydraulic spokes that connected the shovel to the main machine. The shovel was already askew, pushed out as far as it would go. Virgil balanced on the edge of the shovel and the lip on the front of the cab, bending down and cutting the upper spoke relentlessly. He broke through as Gordon reached them, pulling off his headgear, kneeling down and uncovering the welt covered tarp which protected his baby brother. He was there, still awake but just barely, mumbling into the headset to John. "Hey kid. You been havin' all the fun here without me?"

"G'rd'n?" the voice was just a whisper.

"That's me kiddo," Gordon wrap some cheer around his worry. He hunkered down next to Alan, letting the boy use his midriff as a pillow and wrapping an arm around him. "Ready to get the hell out of Dodge?"

"Yeah…"

"Maestro," Gordon flourished to Virgil who was getting soaking wet from the rain pouring through the roof. "If you will."

"One more to go, Alan," Virgil called down to them. Gordon saw the tense set of his shoulders as he stuffed a few tough rags into the gap between Alan and the last spoke – padding for the blades. He shot a dark look at Gordon.

Gordon nodded. He pulled the tarp over Alan, saying with strained enthusiasm. "Hey, we can build a fort!"

Virgil wanted to take his time. He tried to. But he was soaking wet, Alan was soaking wet and injured, and Gordon looked like he's just come back from the wars. He was beginning to hate this basement.

He was nearly halfway through when the flood of water sluiced down, forcing him to stop to keep the cutter from getting flooded. He shook his plastered down hair irritably.

Gordon emerged from the tarp looking highly incensed. "I am getting fed up with this!" he yelled. "What the hell are they doing up there!"

The engine roared to life, in a wash of salt water. Gordon and Virgil both stared at it.

"What the…" Gordon started, but was interrupted by a strangled croak from Alan. With it's last remaining spoke, the things was squeezing at Alan….

"Shit! Cut it! Cut it!" Gordon cried grabbing one side on the shovel and hauling back with every muscle in his athlete's body, straining and yanking.

Virgil started the saw again and drove it into the cut, throwing up a shower of sparks.

There was a tense, heart stopping moment when no one was sure who would win. But then the whine of tortured metal stopped and the shovel toppled forwards, leaving Alan gasping a full breath for the first time in three hours. It hurt, but in the best possible way. Gordon grabbed him, to lay him down flat and, somehow, cradle him at the same time.

There was a babble of voices in his ear – everyone wanted to know what just happened, what caused the panicked yelling and loud crashes.

"Field to the Thunderbirds," Gordon said, holding onto Alan. Virgil had dropped the cutter, and was on the other side. "We got him. We got him."

---------------------------------------

_We got him_……..

It was the first time Jeff felt liked he'd really breathed since they'd landed. He put his head in his hands, trying not to let the dizzy, overwhelming relief overtake his senses. He nearly jumped when Brains patted him on the shoulder.

He watched for every second as the Mole emerged backwards, reloading neatly onto it's rack. Scott waited like a sentry, technically too close, and hovered by the door, jumping at it as it opened and helping them haul out the stretcher.

His sons had emerged from the earth, alive. And they were going home.

----------------------------------------

Fourteen hours later, two men stopped at a greasy spoon a thousand miles away. They kept to themselves, mostly quiet, nondescript, not causing any trouble.

Well okay. The older, stockier one leered at some of the bustier waitresses, but there was something about the way he did it that said this was just par for the course. They ignored it. Also par for the course.

"What did they teach you in that college, Duboir?" Dean Winchester sneered at his ganglier companion. "Who in the hell drinks wheatgrass? I'm mean, I've seen some gross things but that is just…depraved."

'Duboir', aka Sam Winchester, aka long suffering 'maybe-psychic-if-we-really-ever-actually-talk-about-that-stuff-oh-my-god-we're-not-having-a-chic-flick-moment' little brother of aforementioned Dean, ignored the crack. He circled something in the paper. "I think I may've found something."

"A job?" Dean's ears perked up.

"Maybe," Sam looked over the paper at him. "Listen to this; Wharton Academy, Massachusetts, an exclusive private all-boy school, had one of their dormitories collapse in the middle of the night. A group of students were trapped for hours – they actually had to call International Rescue to get them out. And get this – they said it collapsed because a bulldozer from some construction work nearby drove straight into the dorm and gutted it."

"So?" Dean was still waiting for the punch line. "Sounds like an industrial accident to me – not really our shtick there, Sammy."

"It's Sam," Sam corrected without thinking. "This happened in the middle of the night, Dean, the site was shut down; so were the machines. And," he held up a finger as Dean moved to retort. "Several witnesses are saying that the bulldozer was quote 'driving itself'. It tore through the first and the second floor before it fell into the basement."

Dean' eyebrows rose. "Okay. That does sound like our shtick. Where is this school, Massachusetts?" Dean looked up as he calculated. After so many years on the road, he never needed a map any more. "We could probably get there by the day after tomorrow."

"I wonder what kind of entity would have it in for a school?" Sam commented idly as he paid the check.

Dean snorted and snarked. "A school? I'd say the entire student population for a start."

-------------------------------------


	2. Chapter One

Disclaimer: Neither the Thunderbirds nor Supernatural are owned by the author of this non-profit fiction.

Warnings: Supernatural/adult themes and bad language.

Authors Notes: For all of you who begged for another part, here you go. Thanks to all my reviewers, your comments were very kind.

Still working on the next part of 'Psychics' too, for anyone who cares.

----------------------------

Chapter One

----------------------------

Jeff tried not to let his imagination run away with him as the car service pulled up to the hospital where his youngest had been transferred. He was lucky to be here so quickly – Scott had approached him with a duffel bag in hand after they'd finished re-loading the equipment into Thunderbird Two and shoved it into Jeff's hands. 'Civvies' he's said without explanation. That was his Scotty – quintessential Boy Scout. It was a good thing they were about the same size. Thunderbird Two had discreetly and quickly dropped Jeff and Brains in an empty spot as close to the town as they could get. Jeff called his car service from the Thunderbird – if anyone asked, they had been flown in by chopper. It seemed such a strange, disrespectful thing to do to his son, keeping up the subterfuge during a time like this. But Alan knew why – he'd understand.

Brains had taken a second car back to Wharton's, because most of the students were not in any need of hospital care. He volunteered to investigate the incident and call if he learned anything pertinent, leaving Jeff alone with his thoughts.

Jeff was out of the door before it had stopped entirely. Waving off the drivers 'good luck, sir,' he made an impressive sprint for the double doors of the ER and didn't let the crowds of people slow him as he darted and dodged inside. There was, thankfully, a free receptionist at the counter. Jeff wasn't in the right frame of mind for waiting in a queue.

"I'm looking for my son," Jeff tried not to sound curt as he addressed the woman across the reception. "He would have been admitted from Wharton's Academy a couple of hours ago."

The woman's eyebrows rose, but she didn't waste time with small talk. "Name?"

"Alan Tracy. That's one 'l' and no 'e's."

Every second seemed to drag by as the receptionist tapped away at the screen. Jeff tried not to let the smells and sounds of sickness and death push him, these people didn't deserve his anger. He was saving that up for later.

"Here we are," she said finally. "Tracy, Alan. He wasn't admitted for surgery. The school requested a private room for him," the woman fumbled around her desk for a moment, and handed Jeff a clipboard. "I need you to fill out the insurance forms and turn them into the registrar office as soon as possible. Your son was moved to room 549 on ward E. Just take the elevator up to the third floor," she pointed down the hall, where a rack of elevators waited.

Muttering terse thanks, Jeff made a beeline through gurneys and various people moving back and forth across the ER. Jeff saw a couple of fire fighters and other students with minor injuries filling the place. It was a busy night, and the din was loud as harried staff tried to sort through the chaos.

Compared to that, the wards were quiet and dim – it was just hitting sunrise and most the hospital was still on night shift, the patients mostly asleep. Getting directions from a duty nurse once out of the elevator, Jeff was nearly running by the time he reached his son's room. He stopped at the closed door, suddenly aware of how hard he was breathing and how loud his heart beat. He couldn't even remember getting this close to panic before.

Taking a breath through his tight chest, Jeff opened the door.

_There_ he was. Jeff didn't remember getting to the side of the bed; he was suddenly just there, running a hand across his sons soft hair. Alan was asleep, and hooked up to oxygen. He was propped up on the bed, and as Jeff rolled back the blankets slightly he could see the tight bandages strapping his son's ribs. His skin looked raw and bruised all over, his face was pale white. He wrapped his son back up, running a hand over his chest gently as he did so. His one free arm was left bare for the sake of a single IV, and it was heavily bandaged from shoulder to elbow. Jeff clutched his sons hand in his own, gently running the fingers of his other hand feather light across the bandages.

"Sev'nteen stitches," Alan mumbled as his eyes opened.

Jeff started. "_Alan_…"

"Some'n's gonna have t'tell Virg'l his record's been broken," Alan's smile was slightly loopy. "By a whole five stitches."

Jeff let out a breath. "You know, you boys would be doing a great service to my continued longevity, not to mention my remaining hair, if you stopped trying break those records," he commented softly, squeezing Alan's hand.

Alan let out a soft breath of a laugh. "'M sorry," he mumbled.

Jeff gathered his son into his arms with extreme care. "I'm serious Alan," he said into Alan's hair as his sons arms went around his neck. "I'm an old man, I can't take this forever."

"Sorry," Alan said into Jeff's chest.

Jeff sighed and kissed his son's head as he gently lay Alan back down and fussed over the blankets. "No, it's alright. This wasn't your fault." He stroked Alan's forehead, and frowned when he felt it's unusual temperature. Alan's eyes were half lidded, and it was clear from his glazed over eyes that he wasn't firing on all thrusters. "Go to sleep, Alan," he whispered. "You need to rest."

"Dad…the bulldozer," Alan mumbled, sinking rapidly.

Jeff shushed him. "Sleep. Whatever it is, trust me it can wait." He rubbed his son's forearm soothingly. "I'll be here when you wake up."

Jeff stayed there for what felt like forever, touching his son, holding his hand, reassuring himself that the world had only spun slightly off its axis and would right itself again.

There was a knock at the door. Jeff got up to answer it, and was surprised by how stiff he was. He must have sat perfectly still for a long time. He opened the door a wary fraction and was greeted by young Asian man wrapped in a white lab coat, who must have been five foot nothing in his bare feet. "Yes?"

"Mr Tracy?" the young man raised a sharp eyebrow. "His father?" he jerked a sharp chin at the room beyond.

"Yes, I'm Jeff Tracy."

"Mr Tracy, Dr Yoong," the man held out a slender hand. "I was the ER physician who was assigned to your son."

Jeff stepped out of the room and quietly shut the door behind him. "What can you tell me about Alan?"

The young doctor consulted his notes. "Ah yes, the indestructible Alan. I have to tell you, Mr Tracy, your son is extremely lucky. I've seen patients do half the falling with about five times the trauma. Two broken ribs, four cracked. Alan told us when he came in that he was trapped beneath a bulldozer, so that would account for that. He's got a compound fracture on this right ankle, we've splinted it. The gash along his arm required stitches and a tetanus shot. He gave him a full exam with x-rays and a CT scan for head and spine injuries. He came back clean – a little miracle in itself, I'd say. We put him on warm fluids for exposure, of course. We were worried about shock when he first came in, but he is young and healthy and responded well to treatment. He's stable now, and we're running more tests now just to be sure he stays that way."

"He's running a temp," Jeff remembered the heat coming off Alan's forehead.

"Yes," Dr Yoong nodded, and skimmed his notes again. "A pre-existing condition. Alan mentioned to the paramedics that he had a cold. Being trapped in the snow for a few hours hasn't helped it – or has, depending on how you look at it. We put him on strong antibiotics and amoxylin, hopefully we can knock it out before he has to cough past those ribs." Dr Yoong smiled, and suddenly he looked about eighteen. "He's got some superficial abrasions and he'll be one big bruise in the next day or so, but all in all, I reckon he's one of my miracle cases, which brings the total up to one. He's quite a kid, Mr Tracy."

Jeff smile was wry. "Yes, he is." He felt some of the weight drop off his chest. It was good news.

Dr Yoong's face suddenly switched to pensive again, though it was subtle. "There's one more thing, though…" his eyes flickered down the hall for a minute. "Damn, hang on."

The doctor gripped Jeff's forearm in one hand and pulled, and pressed the clipboard of notes against his chest. Suddenly off balance, Jeff found himself being hustled with speed into an empty, dark room opposite.

"Dr Yoong, what…" Jeff shook the doctor off, startled and vaguely impressed that the slight doctor was able to manhandle someone as tall as him so effectively.

"Sorry Mr Tracy," the young man said, looking over his shoulder. Moving along the hallways was a portly grey haired man in an expensive suit. He paused by Alan's room, but continued onto the duty desk at the end of the ward. "It's the end of the year and funding is about due. The hospital administrator is looking for donations. He nearly jumped for joy when he realised how many rich kids were suddenly showing up in his hospital." The young man chuckled.

"Ah," Jeff nodded, feeling oddly grateful to the man for his protection. "What else is there, Doctor?"

"Nothing medical, Mr Tracy, but we did have an incident in the trauma room when we first brought your son in. Apparently one of the teachers that came with the students to the hospital became….disruptive when he saw Alan. He started yelling accusations at him. We had security throw him out when Alan became agitated."

Jeff's eyes narrowed. "Who was he?"

Dr Yoong shrugged. "I didn't get a name out of him. I was more concerned with treating Alan's shock at that point. The security guys might know."

Jeff mulled over that for a moment. "Alright. Thank you for the heads up. How long will Alan need to be here?" Jeff was already calculating for the media that would jump at the chance to get into the Tracy family's lives.

"Well," Dr Yoong speculated. "There no trauma requiring long term care, but I would like to keep him here for at least seventy two hours for tests and observation. After that, as long as he has regular access to his family doctor, I see no reason why he can't be released into your care."

Jeff nodded. "I'll get his medical history to you. Thank you, Doctor." He headed back into the room, closing the door behind him.

----------------------------------------------

"What's our count so far?" Dean asked as the gate closed after his precious '67 Chevy Impala.

"Come again?" Sam replied absently, scribbling on a notepad.

"How many 'Lifestyles of the Rich and Richer' faces have we counted?"

Sam looked up from his academia with a wry smile. "Well, let's see; we've had four Congressmen's sons, two Senator's, the President's nephew, two world famous surgeon's sons, the son of Larendo Mason, the supreme court judge…."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Not to mention the Russian Mafia boss, two billionaire computer geeks and that freak trying to pass himself off as a rock star…"

"You really don't like Acid Consciousness, do you?"

"He stole from the works of the masters, man," Dean griped and he pulled off onto the cobbled terrace. "He's a faker with a good hook. His head should be put on the trophy wall between the rope they used to hang boy bands and the gas chamber they used to smoke the Spice Girls."

Sam decided not to go there. Dean was allowed his passions, however messed up and sad. He told him so on a regular basis, which usually lead to a whack on the head. "Whatever. Anyway, aside from obvious there's no indications of a long term haunting here. No miscellaneous scratchings, no cold patches, no moving furniture, no flickering lights, no unexplained wanderers in the halls."

"Yeah, but the building is old and there's construction work going on next door, that's a couple of the big tells," Dean pointed out. "Nothing like ripping someone's home to bits to piss 'em off." He tugged irritably at his tie. "By the way, why exactly did we have to get dolled up? Dude, I do not do suits!"

Sam wore his neat business suit with more comfort on his gangly form. "Did you notice the security around those places? I don't think they'd react well to two guys wearing leather and jeans. Besides, pretending to be insurance investigators gave us the chance to ask all the right questions about the place."

Dean grumbled at the logic. "Yeah, well, I think I've had enough of being looked down on by a bunch of teeny bopper brats. Hell, most of them were lying through their caps anyway. We'll never find out what, if anything, was really going on in that dorm."

Sam actually trusted Dean's instinct on that. Sam was good at spotting honesty, but Dean was a master at seeing deception.

They'd been visiting the homes of some of the students from Wharton's, 'dolled up' as Dean put it, with insurance company business cards fresh off the copier machine asking about the incident at the dorm two days ago. Well, when they said 'homes' they actually meant the Massachusetts country mansions of some of the richer and higher profile students. It was a picturesque area of the state, and many wealthy parents bought property near the boarding school.

Dean noticed a lot of money and power and ego at work here – they were prime candidates for taking the supernatural option. The rich were more likely to sell their souls than the poor.

What Sam noticed, in a quiet and unspoken way, was the lack of parents. They'd been greeted by butlers, maids, lawyers, au pairs and general hangers-on, but the Moms and Dads? They were closing deals in New York or skiing in the Alps or democratising the Third World. Their sons were in a life threatening situation, and there were promises that they'd make time next week, next month…It saddened Sam in a way he couldn't exactly explain. He may have had a few issues with his Dad's method of parenting, but John Winchester had always known where his sons were and what they were up to. If they were in trouble, he was always there. Dean thought Sam was ungrateful to Dad at times, but he wasn't really – not when the chips were down.

"Can we cut this fed act and do some actual work now?" Dean asked. "The workers must have cleared the site by now – we could probably poke around without anyone noticing."

Sam yanked his tie loose. Frankly he was never at his most comfortable like this either. "Fine. We can run it over with your walkman thingie and see what we've got."

"EMF meter dude," Dean growled. "I know where you live."

-------------------------------------------------

"Yeah…yeah…that's terrific Dad," Scott was nearly sagging with relief as he talked into his cell phone. He sat in the command control centre, idly watching as Thunderbird Two pulled into its cavern after landing. "Geez that kid must be blessed or something…." Scott laughed. "Yeah, or cursed. Can we come….well yeah, I know but the island's going to be unbearable with the other two fidgeting all the time…yeah…yeah, okay, we'll figure it out….okay, I'd better go help unload. Call if you need anything…yeah, okay. Tell the Sprout we expect him to be back here and pulling his weight ASAP. Yeah…bye."

Scott was nearly skipping down to the silos on a natural high from relief. Alan was okay, he hadn't even been cut open. The others would be happy to hear it after all this stress.

Or not. Scott emerged from the elevator to find Virgil and Gordon at each others throats at the open hatch of Thunderbird Two where they'd unloaded the Mole. Scott moved toward them quickly.

"…don't know what happened!" Virgil's voice boomed in the hollow space.

"You should have known _everything_ that was happening! That was your job! I spend extra minutes getting those other kids to out safely and _you_ are down there cutting corners! I can't believe…" Gordon face was red.

"I _did _do my job!"

Gordon suddenly grabbed Virgil by his shirtfront. "Like hell you did…."

"Hey, hey!" Scott got between them before Virgil's still forming fist found a target. He was dimly aware that this was mostly the adrenaline talking. The Tracy's came down off their high after rescues in a variety of fun and painful ways. "Knock it off! I mean it, back off!"

Virgil and Gordon were both glaring at each other, temporarily blocked. Scott felt like banging their heads together. "Alan didn't need surgery and he's in the recovery ward right now, if you must know. Though I can see you have far more _important_ things going on here," Scott's voice sweated sarcasm.

It was like flicking a switch. Both of them whirled on him and started hitting him from both sides. "How bad was it?"

"Any spinals or head wounds?"

"Permanent damage?"

"Did he wake up?"

Scott held up his hands. "You get nothing until I know why I'm standing in the middle of a bar brawl! What the hell are you two doing?"

Virgil and Gordon glanced at each other, all glowers. Scott groaned. This was _not _the time to start a sibling rivalry match.

"Virgil," Gordon hissed, somehow pronouncing each letter in his fury. "Nearly got Alan killed! He cut corners or he forgot something and nearly killed him!"

"What?" Scott shook his head. Virgil _never_ cut corners, he was too much of a perfectionist.

"I wouldn't take that risk with a stranger, you think I'd do it to my own little brother!" Virgil's voice was furiously indignant.

"You were down there when it happened Virgil! You nearly saw Alan die! You tell me!" Gordon's voice echoed up through the silos. "Are you sure you didn't miss anything? After everything that happened down there, _are you sure_?"

Virgil glared at his red-headed younger brother, and stepped up…

"All _right_," Scott bellowed. "That's enough! Both of you, back in your corners and _one_ of you tell what the hell happened!"

Even a raging bear would have backed off. Virgil and Gordon put a few steps of distance between them and turned their attention to their eldest brother, whose patience was twanging.

"The machine started itself while we were still trying to cut the shovel away. It nearly crushed him," Gordon bit out. Scott looked sharply at the red-head's hands, and they were shaking. "He nearly died. It nearly killed him. And it shouldn't have been able to! Virgil was supposed to disable it!"

"I did disable it! I took out the programming boards, I disconnected the starter, I cut through the electrical system and I leaked air and water out of the hydraulics. The only thing I could have done more is take the freaking engine out, and it would not have made it any more dead!"

"Are you delusional? You were there, you saw it move!" Gordon broke in angrily. "Do you call that dead? The only thing that was nearly dead was Alan!"

"Gordon, I know how to stop an engine," Virgil snapped. He went back to the dusty Mole and hauled himself halfway through the hatch so he could reach back onto the cockpit panels. He emerged with a flat disk in his hands. "You know what this is? The mainframe board. It was the first thing I took out and these machines can't even start without it. That's how they were made. That's all it should have taken, and I went a few steps over. I _don't_ _know_ what happened, but I sure as hell am going to find out!"

Gordon stared at the board in Virgil's hands. Of course, that was true. Every engineer knew that and Virgil was a good one. His terror fuelled adrenaline rage subsided slightly. "Right. Right," he rubbed his face irritably, and tried to ignore the pounding in his chest. "You know all about stopping engines. You've been an expert ever since you took Dad's Land Rover apart when you were eleven." Gordon started laughing at the memory. Right now it was funniest thing in the world, ever. He couldn't stop laughing.

He felt an arm around his shoulders, putting pressure on his back, forcing him over slightly. Scott's voice was in his ear. "Gordon, take a deep breath. A nice deep breath. That's it buddy, nice and deep…"

Gordon fought to fill his submariners lungs, and counted backwards from ten. He was losing it, he knew it. God, this doesn't happen to _us_, Gordon thought in embarrassment past his panic. _We _don't do this. Panicking and hysteria was the trait of the rescued. We don't let this stuff in.

Scott was rubbing his back as the world suddenly shifted back into focus. Gordon watched Virgil come back out of the blur. He was watching Gordon worriedly from the hatch of the Mole, where he perched. He had taken off his gloves and was compulsively washing his hands in the air. He didn't even seem to realise he was doing it. His face was shut down. "Be fair," he said weakly, giving Gordon a pale smile. "I did mean to put it back together. I just didn't exactly remember how, that's all."

"Yeah, and wasn't Dad impressed," Scott squeezed Gordon's shoulders comfortingly as the red head straightened. They all looked at each other. It was one thing to be a thousand miles past able to help; it was quite another to be inches away and see how close death could be cut. Scott remembered having _nightmares_ after watching some of the security tapes after spring break. "Okay guys, let's not lose it now. Alan's fine. Dad called – some busted ribs and a fractured ankle and some exposure – he's fine, he's in the ward and Dad spoke to him for a bit. We should be able to bring him home in a couple of days."

"What, that's it?" Virgil was startled.

Scott shrugged. "That's it."

"Jeeeesus," Gordon ran a hand over his face. "He went from the roof to the basement! That kid must be made of Teflon."

Scott rotated his knotted neck with a grunt. "Beginners luck, maybe. Here's hoping he doesn't become an expert. You two are on post-flight checks, I have to call John."

"Figures," Gordon muttered as Scott went back up the elevator. "Being commander means you weasel out of the chores. Virgil?"

Virgil was turning the control board over in his hands. "Yeah?" he answered absently.

"You own me twenty bucks. I told you the Sprout would take out another school before he was done."

"What? No way, accidents don't count!" Virgil protested.

"Do too, you jerk."

"Do not, fishface."

"We never set parameters, though I could have given you good odds on that one," Gordon grinned. "Pay up, grease monkey."

"I'll knock some off the debt you owe me, carrot top."

"Fine."

"Fine."

"Alright then."

"Fine."

They got to work. You had to listen quite hard to hear the apology in the air.

"Hey Virgil?"

"What?" Virgil looked over at Gordon as he headed for the bay of Thunderbird Two.

"Who do you think was driving the thing?"

Virgil looked down at the board in his hand again. "Not a clue. But once we find him," he closed his fingers around the board until it creaked. "It's not going to matter."

----------------------------------------------------

"The rich always get the coolest toys," Dean muttered as he climbed over a collapsed wood beam, holding up the remains of a laptop so thin you could slide it under a door.

"Oh, I dunno," Sam picked his way through the hole in the wall. "You got handle a consecrated poniard when you were thirteen. We played demons and priests with a piece of the Byzantine cross."

"Good point," Dean dropped the laptop on the deformed and water damaged mattress, before turning to survey the scene. It wasn't pretty – whoa, could that baby do some damage. "Okay. If I'm reading the tracks right, the bulldozer came through _here_," Dean turned slowly in the ruin of the room. "Turned," he brushed the tortured scoring on the dark wood floor. "And headed out _here_," Dean stepped out of the cavernous hole it had made of the doorway. "And headed this way." He paused while he dug the EMF meter out. He toed the parquet floor warily. It was these half condemned places that were the most deadly, and in a completely non-supernatural way, too. You could step on floor or lean on a wall that looked as solid as the next until you were going through it. He had spent two miserable weeks on crutches when he was fifteen because of a place just like this, and Sam still hadn't stopped snickering about it.

He scanned the immediate area with his machine, watching the line of little red lights flicker. It wasn't exactly shrieking. Dean frowned – that wasn't normal for your average haunting.

Sam sidled past him, running an idle foot over the white scoring in the floor. Even here, far away from the holes further along, there was nothing but destruction. Stress fractures webbed the walls and ceilings, and ahead the wide wood main staircase was a barely recognisable lopsided line of risers, splintered and cracked, the remains of the banisters jutting up irregularly like the final teeth in the mouth of an old man.

"They were lucky to get out," Sam commented, feeling along the walls with a flat hand as he crept along the wonky corridor. "This place is trashed." The floor shifted under his feet, and Sam jumped back as it sank slightly, wood and plaster creaking and groaning.

"If you're not careful, you will be too," Dean snapped. He scowled at the EMF reader in his hands, and shook it. "Something's wrong here, dude. The EMF ain't showing squat."

Sam looked around. "Maybe…dormant?" He stepped through the corridor warily. "I dunno. Not a ghost?"

"I'm not smelling any sulphur," Dean countered, fiddling with the machine. "And demons tend to leave a body count."

Sam tilted his head to concede point. The flash of pain the statement caused was old and well worn now, and he barely acknowledged it. He frowned as he moved further along, ignoring the still shifting floor, past the stairs and toward the epicentre of the sink – the frosty breeze streamed through his longish hair as he made his way toward it.

There was something else here, he heard himself think. It was so insubstantial the breeze was solid by comparison, but it tingled on his skin, stealing across him like morning sunlight on a bed. Close…the half formed thought nearly had a shape...nearly….

"Dude!" A calloused hand pulled at the back of his jacket and jerked him backward so sharply that Sam nearly tripped over his overlong legs. "Didn't I just say 'careful'?" Dean growled, irritated. "Jesus, who needs ghosts for a shot of danger when you've got a little brother bumbling around the place!"

"Dean, leggo!" Sam shrugged him off, annoyed and a little ashamed he'd lost his focus. That sort of thing could get you killed.

The EMF shrieked.

"The hell…" Dean scanned it around. It beeped weakly, little red lights dimming one by one, but as Dean swung it around, it flared up again.

Sam turned carefully in the right direction, and stepped into a dark, warped doorway where it led. The room stank of damp and rot, and was pitch black since most of the walls on the first floor were intact. He dug in his jacket for a flashlight. Dean followed him, meter glowing and beeping excitedly. "Hold on man, let's get the rock salt first," he admonished his younger brother. "It might still be in here."

Sam shook his head slowly. "I…don't think so. That gizmo is only giving us a half reading…look, it's already fading," he pointed to the slowly shrinking line of red. "I think it might have left something behind, though."

Sam dug gingerly through the various chunks of debris and junk washed into the room by the flood. There was a reek of wet char, and a sooty mess coated his hands. He actually got down on his hands and knees to get the reach under the messy bed. Close…close…his hand closed over the prize….

"W-w-w-what are you do-doing?"

Sam nearly hit his head as the unexpected voice came from behind. Dean spun on a dime and planted himself firmly between Sam and the door on reflex, hand going automatically to the back of his jacket where he kept one of his many hand guns.

To minds always expecting an enemy, the figure at the doorway was a bit of a surprise. Dean's eyes swept over a tallish, middle aged and bespectacled man, all the way from his sensible loafers to his clearly experimental haircut. Here was a man who clearly tried to be neat – plastic pocket protectors? Did anyone actually wear those anymore? – but it was slightly ruined by the fact that the he, himself was better at making chaos than neatness. He moved like a man with his mind continuously on a higher plain, a sleepwalker.

Sam got up and carefully placed whatever it was he'd gotten behind his back while Dean lowered his flashlight and tried for an innocent smile. "Er…hi. We're just looking over the site. We work for the insurance company."

Weird. You'd think with an open and slightly nervous face like that would take him at his word – this was not a man who carried himself with confident self-assurance that was difficult to lie to – but he felt the man's eyes pass over him with microscopic focus, and single eyebrow rose disbelievingly.

"I s-s-see," he replied noncommittally. Even a stutter? Geez, this has to be an act, Dean thought. No one is this pure a geek. "I w-wou-wou…you shouldn't be this f-f-far in, invest-ves-vestigating or not. The st-st-structure has til-til-til…slouched over 45 degrees. It's not longer a st-st-standing building, strictly speaking." The guy kept one hand on the door frame and stretched one gangling arm into the dark room. "C-c-come on. The ar-area you're standing on ha-has no support…uh, frame."

Dean opened his mouth to say that they would be fine, but was stopped when Sam stepped forward to acquiesce. When he moved further out into the hall, he could see why – this guy might look like a bundle of timorous nerves held together by academia and hope, but the eyes, oh, the eyes, they saw _everything_. Without even apparently thinking about it, the geek lead them back through the destruction, stepping so carefully it was almost ludicrous until you realised he was stepping precisely of the joints of the support beams, (mostly) invisible under the floor. How he calculated _that_ Dean couldn't guess, but clearly there was a mind behind those ridiculous spectacles.

They made it back to the entry point, where the gaping hole opened to the destroyed construction site that had been dusted in snow. The man bent to retrieve the remains of the laptop that Dean had discarded – he turned it over in his hands almost idly, staring at nothing.

"So, are you a teacher here? Do you know what happened?" Sam broke the silence after sharing a look with Dean. Sam had the guy pegged for either biology or chemistry.

"N-n-no," the man stuttered softly. "This was my s-s-son's room."

Oh. That explained the look on his face as he handled the machine in his hands. There was a razor edge under those nerves, but it was turned inwards. "I'm sorry. Is he okay?" Sam asked.

"He's f-f-fine," the man shrugged. "Although I d-d-d-don't know _why_." He pursed his lips. "The cur-cur-curvature of the tracks indicate…someone was dr-dr-driving the b-b-b…the machine." His hands tightened over the laptop.

It too the two brothers a moment to figure out what he meant, but then Dean saw the line of red flags that had been meticulously planted along the line of destruction. It did curve, quite noticeably, towards the dormitory. Sam and Dean looked at each other again. There was something else going on here.

"Well, that's what we're here to find out," Dean replied, trying to break through the tension. "That PC looks like a write off, but you can probably claim it against the school policy…"

The bespectacled man looked down at the machine in his hands. "Oh n-n-no. I b-b-b-b-built this, I can, uh, repair it." He looked over the two Winchesters again, with a strangely knowing look. He extended a hand to Sam, and then to Dean. "My n-n-name is Ha-Ha-Ha-Hackenbacker. I m-m-must say that I've n-n-n-never met insurance, uh, in-investigators who wear st-st-steel caps before."

The brothers Winchester looked down at their boots. They were designed for their lifestyle; hunting, running, fighting and shooting – you needed a boot that could withstand all weathers, all punishment, blood, demon spit and ectoplasm. And you never took them off – a hunter without good footwear on the job seldom stayed a hunter for long.

"I'm s-s-s-sure we will, uh, meet again," the gangly man nodded to their slightly uncomfortable expressions, and strode back towards the quad, laptop in hand.

"Ouch. Busted," Dean grimaced.

Sam shrugged. "It happens sometimes." And he was right. You never knew when you were going to meet that one cop that saw past the bad boy exterior, the one family member that picked up on the strangeness. Every so often you just met people you couldn't bullshit.

"What've you got?" Dean asked, watching carefully to make sure the strange geek was still moving away and not listening in.

"Not sure," Sam finally got a look at the thing he had clawed from under the bed.

It wasn't really a thing – it was a piece of a thing. It was a broken piece of wood, cut into a clean L shape, straight on one edge but clearly shattered on the other. Chequered lines had been scored carefully in the top, making it scaly and textured. It almost looked like half a…

"Doll house?" Dean stared at it. "The roof of a dolls house?"

Sam turned it over in his hands curiously. "Pretty odd thing to find in an all boy school, huh?"

"I dunno," Dean smirked. "Lots of raging pubescent hormones all stuffed together in a small space…"

"If you were living in a place like this, would you even take the risk?" Sam raised an eyebrow.

"Good point," Dean ran the EMF meter over the wooden piece again. The signal was faint, but there was definitely something a disturbance in the electro-magnetic field around it, fading away.

"Come on, we better clear out for a while," Sam suggested. "Hackenbacker will tell the school we're out here, and people can be very unsympathetic to strange guys hanging around kids."

Dean followed him, but reluctantly. "So far this has been a big fat bust."

"Maybe we got lucky - maybe it's had its fun and has decided to go on it's own," Sam shrugged, but his tone didn't fit the statement.

Dean snorted. "Dude, are we ever that lucky?"

"Alright, fine," Sam was resigned. "Research time. Let's look into Wharton's and see if we can't find out what or who would be haunting it."

Dean made a face. "I knew it."

They made their way across the courtyards to the lower car park, Sam turning his strange prize over in his hands as he went. They were halted by a yell, and a group of boys in the navy school uniform came trotting up.

"Hey, you guys allowed on the site, right?" one said breathlessly. "Because we really need to get…"

"Hey, whoa, whoa," Dean held up his hands. "We're not in the salvage business. Whatever you need can wait until they've cleared the site."

"Oh man," the kid groaned. "Come on, we'll pay."

Sam stepped up. "You couldn't afford us. You lived in the dorm, right?"

"Yeah, so?"

"We work with the insurance company – we're just collecting some witness accounts for our people," Sam explained quickly. "Can you tell us what happened here?"

"A freakin' bulldozer came through the wall," another boy smirked. "Couldn't you tell?"

"Smartass," Dean muttered. "Did you see anything weird? And I _know_ about the freakin' bulldozer, okay? Did you notice anything wrong with it?"

"Hell, I wasn't sticking around to look," the first kid snorted, and the rest of them laughed.

"Yeah, not a smart career move," another snickered.

"It all happened so _fast_," another one piped up softly. "It's not like there was any time to think, or anything. It was just a…big, big machine."

"Yeah, not much to see, really," the second kid grumbled, sounding a little disappointed.

"Except those freaky headlights coming at ya," the first kid muttered. There was a group shiver. "But…oh, hey, if you really want the up-close story, you should talk to Tracy."

"Who's she?" Dean asked, sharp eyes darting from one to the other.

They started laughing. "He," the kid corrected. "This _is_ a school for guys. Tracy as in Alan Tracy – you know, son of Jeff Tracy, the billionaire?"

The second kid grunted. "Yeah, and the sun shines out of that guy's ass, if you believe Alan when he talks," he murmured almost under his breath. Dean shot him a nasty look. Quite apart from hating vicious mutterers, Dean didn't think admiration for one's father was a subject for jokes.

"What about this Alan guy?" Sam persisted.

"I heard some of those ACP nerds talking," the kid shrugged. "Tracy got trapped in the basement with the bulldozer when the roof fell in. The Thunderbirds had to get him out! Man that would have been so cool."

"He was done there with it for a while, huh?" Dean asked.

"Yeah, a couple of hours all told," the kid shrugged.

"Is he here?" Dean cut in.

"Nah, he was one of the ones taken to the hospital," the third kid replied. "I heard some of the guys in his class talking about getting a pass to go see him."

"Okay, thanks. We'll look him up," Dean nodded. "In the meantime, stay away from the dorm – it's not stable. Don't be morons."

They left the boys staring longingly at the dorm, and headed for the Impala. The frost had turned the black car into a penguin. Dean brushed some frozen stuff off his precious Chevy while Sam unlocked it and climbed in.

He looked at Dean. "Hospital?"

"Hospital."

--------------------------------------------------

Scott assembled the last few things he would need in his flight bag. The other two were Not Talking To Him, a state of affairs that fully deserved each capital letter. Well, what had they expected? They couldn't all go…

As Scott walked past the command centre, a call came in from John in the space station. Scott nearly groaned. There couldn't be a call right now, could there?

"When are they coming to pick me up?" John demanded.

Not quite what he was expecting, but Scott groaned anyway. "Not you too! I nearly just had a knock down drag out fight with Hewey and Dewey over this! We can't all go to see Alan all at once, right? We have to keep the base manned!"

John blinked at him. "I'm not saying we do. I just want to come down so I can have a shift, alright?"

Scott forced himself off the offensive. Lord knows after dealing with Virgil and Gordon coming at him from both sides was enough to frazzle anyone's last nerve. "Okay, okay. But why? I mean, long distance communication has always suited you before."

"This is a little more serious than a cold or chicken pox, Scott," John replied, slightly exasperated. "Besides, I want to talk to Alan about some…stuff."

Scott felt his instincts give a buzz. "About…?" he pressed.

"You don't seriously expect me to answer that, do you?" John said disbelievingly. "It's…personal, okay? I'll tell you if he says it's okay."

Scott let that ride for now. There was no arguing with John in this mood, and besides, Scott had a few tricks he could use to find out later.

"So," John continued. "When are the others coming up?"

Scott shook his head. "I don't see it happening, John. We'd have to find someone to replace you up there, and we're short of volunteers. Dad will be like glue on Alan even after he gets home, which means I'm grounded as field commander. Virgil and Gordon will _never_ agree to go, trust me."

"What about Brains?" John persisted. "He wanted to come up here anyway to test the reinstalled systems and give the repairs a follow up." Huh, repairs. More like rebuild, after the Hood.

"I don't think he's gonna wanna leave Fermat for a while. I don't blame him, it was pretty close this time," Scott ran an agitated hand through his hair.

"Fermat wasn't injured, was he?"

"Nah, he was fine," Scott reassured.

"Then he should be able to pass the physical to get up here, right?" John pointed out.

Scott raised an eyebrow. "What, send Fermat up with him?"

"Why not?" John shrugged. "He'll get to spend some quality time with his son, and do his checks, _and_ Fermat can learn some of the communications end. Win-win all round."

Scott gave up in the face of John's relentless logic. "Fine, fine. I'll bring it up with Dad. As soon as he gives the okay, you can roll out the welcome mat." Scott checked his watch. "I'd better get going."

"Say hi to the Sprout for me," John said. "Tell him he's used up at least six of his nine lives, so save the rest."

Scott laughed. "Will do."

--------------------------------------------------

The police turned up mid morning after Alan had started to really wake up and become more lucid. Jeff had gotten as far as 'you scared the hell out of me,' when the knock came at the door to admit Officers Tuey and Garretto.

"Does he have to do this right now?" Jeff asked Tuey irritably. "He's had a long night and only just woke up."

"I'm sorry, sir," Officer Tuey replied. He was a lanky, mournful looking man, but quite clever. "We just need a preliminary statement from Alan about what happened last night, so we can sort out what leads to follow. It will only be short, I promise."

Jeff grimaced at that. Of course it was necessary, but that didn't mean Jeff had to like it. If it were up to him Alan would be back on the island already, being looked after by his brothers and well away from prying eyes and questions.

He'd always promised himself he wouldn't turn into one of those arrogant jerks that let lawyers talk for them and treated the police like some sort of sheepdog.

"Dad?" Alan called from behind. "It's okay, really. I'm okay. It's better than eating the food." He gave his Dad a grin while he poked at the meal he'd been bought – which evidently had to contain food since it had been loaded onto a tray and came with cutlery.

Jeff shook his head in resignation and stepped back to admit the two officers. He went back to his chair and solicitously helped his son get the tray onto the bedside cabinet. Tuey and Garreto remained standing, but Garetto, dark haired and muscled, pulled out a notepad. "Okay, Alan," he said. "Can you tell us everything that happened last night, right from the start? When did you first wake up?"

"Two fifteen," Alan replied promptly. "I looked at the clock."

Garetto nodded. "Excellent. It's not often we get an exact time. Then what?"

"I, uh, couldn't sleep. Something woke me, I don't know. I went for a walk…."

And so it continued as Alan recounted the nightmarish chase up through the dorm to the roof and then back down to the basement. After that Alan got a little vague, and edited out most of the details. He was 'out of it', he said. It was close enough to the truth to pass muster without suspicion.

After they had left, Jeff shut the door and turned back to the bed, where Alan was propped up against pillows. "So. You climbed across the dorm roof, huh?"

"It sounds like more fun than it was," Alan admitted sheepishly.

"It doesn't sound fun to me at all, Alan" Jeff replied gruffly. "And you pulled that boy to safety, too."

Alan shrugged. "I didn't really think about it at the time, Dad. I wasn't trying to be, you know, heroic or anything. He was just there and there wasn't time for anything else, you know? It was pretty stupid, really."

"You'd be _amazed_ at how often heroism and stupidity intersect, son, trust me. You did what you had to do, and lucky for you it turned out to be the right thing, that's all," he touched his son's face. "I'm so proud of you."

Alan flushed. "Yeah, well…"

There was another knock at the door, completely shattering the moment.

Jeff sighed. "Maybe we should just get a revolving door"

Alan laughed, and then stopped, putting a hand on his torso. "Uhhh, don't make me laugh," he said between chuckles.

Jeff winked at him as he went to the door, and Alan felt a wonderful warmth as he realised his Dad thought he was tough enough to handle his own injuries without too much coddling.

This time the faces were more familiar. "Hi there Fermat," Jeff nodded to the bespectacled boy and looked carefully over the rest of them crowding the door. All of them were his son's age, and they were all wearing the school uniform. Behind them, waiting at the duty desk, Brains flipped him a slight wave. "You all right?"

"Y-y-y-yes sir," Fermat gave him a shy smile. "I was-wasn't in-in-in-…hurt. Can we s-see Alan? For a little while?"

Jeff didn't like the idea of leaving his son - not even for a minute - right at the moment, but no teenage boy liked to talk to his friends while his Dad was in the room. He looked back at Alan, who looked alert and not in too much pain and interested in the guests. "Alright. You boys have ten minutes, understand? That should be long enough for me to get some coffee. And that's _it_. Alan needs rest."

"Yes, sir," one kid spoke up.

The boys all filed in, and Jeff sidled out. "Come on Brains, I'll buy you a coffee."

"Yes My T-Tracy."

------------------------------------------------

"Hey guys," Alan said cheerfully and the group came in.

Fermat smiled at him. "H-h-how are you feeling?"

"Like I fell off a roof," Alan swatted him on the arm affectionately as Fermat took the seat Jeff had vacated. The rest of the boys ranged themselves across the counter on one side of the room or at the end of the bed. "What are the rest of you doing here?"

They were a mixed bag, short, tall, thin, stout, all five of them staring at Alan with varying degrees of fascination.

"Well, we've never met someone who got to see the Thunderbirds up close and personal," Leyton Roberts, the tall, gangly blue eyed and brown haired son of a successful trader otherwise known as Robbie, said. "What were they like?"

"I was half frozen and under a bulldozer, Robbie, it's not like I was paying attention," Alan replied, shrugging.

"Not paying attention?" Nicholas Colsan, dark, spiky haired son of the Senator, asked. "You? The worlds most obsessed Thunderbirds fan? They're right in front of you and you're not paying attention?"

"My brothers are never going to let me live it down, I know that," Alan muttered, and glared at Fermat when he snickered.

Evan Estaven, copper haired, puzzle obsessed and the nephew of a Texan oil baron, chuckled in that snorting way of his. "And you think we will, Miss Tracy, damsel in distress?"

"Up yours Double E," Alan snarked. Double E just smirked.

"_I_ came to thank you," Ricky Ivanonik shuffled forward quietly. "For the roof thing, I mean." He blushed furiously. He was generally called Ivan the Terrible by the other kids, because when you're a four foot two midget and ninety pounds soaking wet, there's some jokes you just had to make.

Alan shrugged. "I said it before, Ivan. No sweat, right?"

Ivan smiled. "Yeah."

"Hey Tracy," the fifth boy broke in finally. His name was Walter Barstom the Third, but everyone called him by his second name, Caleb. He hated the Walter. His intense green eyes watched everything. "Did you see anything down there? Who was driving the bulldozer?"

"Hey, yeah," Double E responded. "Did you get a look at the bastard's face?"

"You came here to ask me that?" Alan asked. It's not like he hung out with these guys on a regular basis, at least he didn't six months ago. They were all in the ACP's, and while it started as quite a large group, inevitably it was whittled down as less hardy or academic students washed out or decided to leave. By the time the mid-terms rolled around, only the most brilliant or the most stubborn were left, and they had several courses and study groups together. They worked together out of self defence.

"Well I don't know about you, Tracy," Caleb snorted. "But I would like to know who drove a seventy tonne machine through my bedroom. It's quirk of mine."

"I didn't see anything," Alan replied. "Because there was no one to see. No one was driving."

There was a shocked silence. "There m-m-m-must have been some-someone controlling it!" Fermat exclaimed.

"Look, I saw inside that cab from three inches away," Alan insisted. "Believe me, there was no one driving it."

"Geez, what the hell's happening?" Nicholas asked the air. "This is eerie weird, man."

"M-m-maybe a remote con-control?" Fermat suggested.

"Yeah, probably," Caleb replied dismissively. "Who cares? We get out of school and the ACP-er's get a break. You should get trapped in the basement more often Tracy." He smirked.

"I'll try to make an effort," Alan retorted dryly. "Aside from the near-death stuff, it's kind of fun."

They snickered and sniggered.

"Hey Alan," Ivan piped up as the amusement passed. "That guy – that was your Dad?"

Alan looked startled. "Of course."

"Oh, we forgot," Robbie grimaced. "You're one of those with a real Dad."

"What?"

"Come on, Tracy," Nicholas snorted. "I was in that dorm too, and all I rated was a call asking whether or not I did it."

"Y-y-you weren't injured," Fermat pointed out softly.

"I broke my wrist last year, and my Dad didn't even know until he assessed the medical bills for his taxes last month," Double E retorted.

"My Dad's too busy with Embassy business," Ivan added with a sigh.

"My Dad wouldn't show up if I was staked through the heart," Caleb rolled his eyes. "If I died the only reason he would come was to collect the paperwork for the insurance."

"Hey, it's not so bad," Robbie shrugged. "If they don't care, then they won't care if you get into trouble. You can get away with shit like you wouldn't believe."

"True," Double E nodded.

"Geez, depressed much," Alan muttered. He found himself slightly put off by their unthinking cynicism.

Caleb waved his hand diffidently. "Way of the world, Tracy. We're not sons. We're…fashion accessories. Investments. Media releases, maybe." There was a quiet, almost unnoticeable bitter edge to the words, half buried in the indifference. "So you really didn't see or hear anyone in the damn machine, yeah?"

"Nada," Alan sighed. "It was…weird."

The door slammed open, causing those inside to jump, startled. A quivering, burning, razor expression of fury was wrapped around the face of a short, stocky, balding man with an egg shaped head, disproportionately long arms and a pompous suit with a bow tie. "Tracy!" he barked sharply.

"Mr Spivelli?" Robbie asked, taken aback.

A variety of expressions passed over Spivelli's face, which settled into disgruntlement. "Boys, the bus is leaving to take you back to Wharton's, I suggest you don't miss it. I need to speak to young Mr Tracy for a moment. Time to say goodbye."

Aside from being the director of music, Mr Spivelli was also the deputy headmaster so arguing with him was not a wise career move. The boys all grunted various goodbyes and left, picking up their bags at the door. There was an exception.

"That included you, Mr Hackenbacker, just in case you didn't realise," Spivelli added unctuously.

"I'm h-h-here with my d-d-d…my father," Fermat explained, slightly defiant. "He to-to-took me out of school."

"Then would you please wait outside," Mr Spivelli gestured to the open door. "This has nothing to do with you."

Fermat made a face. It was unusual for Fermat to truly dislike any teacher, but Spivelli was something special. To those with musical aptitude, he was a maestro of praise. To anyone with a tin ear for the classics, he was Hitler who had let himself go. He wasn't popular with anyone, and he particularly despised students who were brighter than he was. It was quite a large group.

"What is it Spi…Mr Spivelli?" Alan choked back the 'Spit Valve' nickname.

"Don't you take that tone with me young man!" Spivelli snapped. "Do you even realise what has happened?" the man paced in front of the bewildered Alan. "We spent hundreds of thousand of dollars on those extensions, not to mention the danger to the students in the building! I've been waiting – _waiting _– for something like this to happen! You were just waiting for the chance, weren't you? I _will _find out how you orchestrated this, Tracy, and when I do the only school that will take you is one of the correctional facilities!"

"What?" Alan protested. "What are talking about? You think _I_ did the bulldozer thing? I didn't have anything to do with it!"

"Pish posh," Spivelli waved off the denial like an insect. "You've had practice on the _last_ school you went to! No one was fooled by your good boy act! Kids like you don't know how to do anything but break things! You're only clever enough to cause trouble, you're not smart or humble enough to really make a genuine effort! Now, for you, one of our oldest heritage buildings is destroyed and hundreds of thousands of our school budget is down the drain! You will _hang_ for this, Tracy!"

"Yeah right," Alan retorted angrily. "And me getting trapped down in the basement and nearly dying was all part of the plan? You're insane! You just want someone to pin this on so you won't have to explain to a bunch of rich parents why their sons were living in a derelict old building with no heat and no fire escapes!"

Spivelli went an apoplectic purple and jumped forward to grab Alan by the shirt front. "You little arrogant _brat_…"

Alan let out a gasping breath as he was tugged forward, sharp pains shooting up from his ribs. "Leggo…" he wheezed.

"H-h-hey, let go!" Fermat yelled from the still-open door.

But Fermat was drowned up by the sharp "_Hey_!" coming from behind him. A fit looking, short haired younger man shoved into the room and jerked Spivelli away from Alan sharply. "What the hell are you doing?" the man's green eyes were sharp and angry.

Another young man followed him, who was lankier and had longer hair. "Are you okay?" he asked Alan, who was coughing painfully.

Fermat, who was logical under stress, knew this situation was beyond his control, and turned on his heel to get reinforcements.

"Who are you?" Spivelli demanded, but his tone of authority bounced off the green eyed man, rendering it weak and shrill.

Dean grabbing him by his shirt front and dragged him nose to nose. "I'm _someone_ who doesn't like teachers who hit students," he snarled.

If it came to a competition between strong personalities, Spivelli wasn't even in the running. He twisted out of Dean's grip and strode as haughtily as he could towards the door. "This isn't over Tracy. Be glad your father has deep pockets, it might save you."

He strode out under their glares.

"Pleasant guy," Dean smirked.

"One of a kind," Alan wheezed. "Thank you God. Thanks for you help."

"No problem," Sam smiled at him. "Do you want us to get a doctor?"

"'M good," Alan relaxed against the pillows. He focused on breathing for a few seconds.

"You're Alan Tracy, right?" Dean asked.

"Yeah…?"

"We wanted to talk to you," Sam held out a hand. "I'm Sam, this is Dean," he gestured to his sibling, and then dug around for a business card. "We, uh, we work for the school's insurance company. We just need to ask you a few questions about the bulldozer incident…"

"Uh, I already gave a statement to the police this morning," Alan explained. He felt a little suspicious, and tried to clear the fuzz from his head.

"Right, right," Sam replied. "But we just need your account for our records. Can you tell me what you saw?"

"Well, I woke up and couldn't get back to sleep," Alan began, a little tiredly. "I was walking around the hall and then I heard it outside. The next thing I know, it's coming through the wall of my room. I grabbed Fermat – that's my roommate – and we hauled out of there."

Dean flashed back to the scene at Wharton. "Then it chased you upstairs, yeah?"

"Yeah. We all ran to the roof, but then it started destroying the second floor, so the roof started to collapse. I ended up going through. It chased me until it fell through the floor and took me with it to the basement."

"Whoa, nasty," Dean commented.

"A carnival," Alan sighed. "Anyway, it just kept coming at me when I was down there, and I ended up having to get in behind the shovel to get away from it and it trapped me there. Then the Thunderbirds showed up."

Sam nodded. "It just trapped you? That's all it wanted, you think?"

"No," Alan said in a strained voice. "I think it was trying to kill me. But when the shelves and all the other stuff tipped over it, it just…stopped. I don't know why." Alan rubbed a hand over his face. It was a question that sat coldly and painfully right in the middle of his head. Was it just luck? Design? Which would he prefer?

"Stuff?" Sam asked, feeling his instincts flare up sharply.

"Salt and flour and stuff. They stored stuff from the kitchens in our basement."

A lightning fast look passed between the brothers Winchester.

Before they could answer to the thought running through both their heads, Scott Tracy appeared at a long legged sprint. "Alan! Are you alright?" he demanded, striding into the room and raking Dean and Sam with a check/threat/danger glare as he passed. "I ran into Fermat on the ground floor, he said a teacher was attacking you!"

"I'm okay, Scott," Alan assured. "Spit Valve kind of lost it."

"Spit Valve?"

"Mr Spivelli," Alan elucidated. He saw Dean snicker slightly out of the corner of his eye.

"What, that music teacher guy?" Scott's eyes narrowed as he took in Alan's pale face. "What did he do exactly?"

"Nothing," Alan replied, but it didn't sound convincing even to him. "Anyway, they helped me."

Scott's eyes passed over Dean and Sam again, and they were no friendlier. "Oh yeah? And who are they?"

"We work with the insurance company," Sam replied, mollifying. "I'm Sam Duboir, and that's Dean Peterson. We just came to ask Alan some questions."

Scott extended a hand to Dean, who took it. Scott didn't shake it – instead he turned it over so he could look at the back of it. "Insurance investigators with steel caps and brass knuckle hands? I don't think so. Whoever you are you need to come up with a better lie. Since you helped Alan I won't call security, but you get the hell out of here now and leave my little brother alone." He scowled at them and planted himself firmly in front of Alan, who was looking from Dean to Sam, startled.

"We're just trying to make sure this doesn't happen again," Sam explained, but he moved toward the door.

"I have the word of a liar for that. Out," Scott snapped. He smacked the door shut after them. "Reporters."

"I…don't think so," Alan replied. "They weren't asking the right questions for that."

He was suddenly cut off as Scott moved to hug him gently but firmly. "Christ, it's good to see you up and around. When they bought you up you were practically blue."

Alan hugged his brother-come-surrogate-mother, the closest to the real thing he'd ever known. "I'm okay, Scott. You got me out."

"Yeah," Scott let him go, but shuffled a space for himself on the edge of the bed. "Do it again and I'll have Dad ground you until you're thirty."

"Ah, I hear the rattling chains of home," Alan groaned theatrically.

"Don't be a smartass, Sprout."

"Where's Fermat?" Alan looked toward the door. "You leave him in the dust?"

"I sent him to get Dad. They should be along in a minute."

"Are the others coming?" Alan asked eagerly.

"Not all at once," Scott shook his head. "Dad said you'd be here for a few days, so you'll see them soon enough. Even John wants to come down."

"No way. Really?" Alan was incredulous.

"This is a little more serious than a cold or chicken pox," Scott grinned. "Or so I've been told."

Alan leaned back against the pillows, looking worn and tired. "You were really rude to those guys, Scott. They did help me." There was a little reproach in his voice.

"When the first word out of their mouths is a lie, you can make a fairly reasonable argument for them not being on your side, Sprout," Scott fussed with the blankets agitatedly.

"We lie," Alan pointed out. "I lied to the police this morning, technically that's a crime."

"Alan," Scott was exasperated. "Good reason or not, I'm not taking any chances. They moved like fighters and I'm pretty sure that Dean guy had a gun under his jacket. It's a dangerous man that brings a gun into a hospital. No, no arguments," Scott held up a hand. "I don't care what their reasons are, they aren't coming near here."  
Alan sighed – it was hard to argue with Scott when you were fit and lucid, impossible when you were chained to a bed. "Fine."

"So," Scott gave a sly smile as he rubbed Alan's shoulder. "You've got a second school to add to the 'total write-off' list, huh?"

"Oh, shut _up_."

-------------------------------------------------------

"Twice in one day," Dean muttered as the headed for the stairwell. "This place must breed them, or something."

"Things moving by themselves, random destruction, stopped by salt," Sam ticked off the points on his hands.

"Definitely a ghost, probably a poltergeist," Dean finished. "But there's more too. Remember Alan called his roomie Fermat? Did you see that kid with the stutter jump up when Spit Valve grabbed the kid?"

"Where else have we heard a stutter today?" Sam nodded.

"If I was that much of a geek, Fermat's just the kind of name I'd burden my kid with. Fit him like a glove," Dean snorted.

"And the bulldozer curved to hit the dorm. It could have gone straight and still done the damage." Sam mind was working fast. "It might have had a target."

As they left the stairwell through the heavy bar door, some tingle, some instinct made Sam glance upwards. Maybe it was just a hunter's sense – after all, there were things out there with no idea what gravity was for. You learned to expect foes from every direction in their business. But his glance showed nothing and no one. There wasn't any sound but them, echoing up the concrete well. Shrugging it off, he left the stairs saying. "Now it's time to hit the books. We have to find out what could be haunting Wharton Academy."

The sound of the door slamming after them boomed up the stairwell, so heavy and on such a strong spring that it rattled the iron banisters.

A bag had been left right at the top of the stairwell. It was perched on the railing nearest to the centre shaft, and it was so precariously balanced that the slightest force – a breath of wind, the tiniest tremor – could have shaken it loose like a thistle seed.

There was a breathless moment of seesaw as it wobbled in the door's echoes, and then it toppled sideways, down the shaft and what amounted to eight stories of space. Unregarded on the empty stairwell, it plummeted until it met the floor. There was a definite cracking, breaking sound of something being turned into small pieces.

_There were voices_…..

Many voices, or perhaps many words in one voice – whatever it was, it was a meaningless babble of nearly silent whispers. Frost formed on the metal railing. The voices seemed to grow louder, although still a confused din so that there were no actual words to hear.

The bag moved. The voices, the words all coalesced into one, single, completely soundless stream of words that screamed…

_What makes you so special!_

The doors to every floor were blown off their hinges. Shouts and screams of patients and staff joined the echo of whispers in the well. Whatever it was rose like a tide, and flew up the stairwell.

It was heading for Alan.

----------------------------------------------------


	3. Chapter Two

Disclaimer: The Thunderbirds are owned by Gerry & Sylvia Anderson _et al_, Supernatural is owned by Eric Kripke _et al_. This is a non-profit trite literary effort.

Warnings: Violence, Mild Coarse Language and Adult Themes.

Authors Note: Sorry, this went on a rambling journey and I had to get another chapter of 'Psychics' out, so it was on hold for a couple of weeks before I started writing it.  
Wow – what a lot of reviews! Keep 'em coming, folks! They were very kind. I was very tickled to learn I was indirectly responsible for budding 'Supernatural' obsessions.

---------------------------------------------

Chapter Two

---------------------------------------------

At Tracy Island, things had settled down a bit. Gordon was spending his time pacing, but he wouldn't have called it pacing. He'd run out of love for doing laps in the pool and he was fairly sure that Ohana would go after him with a paring knife if he kept poking around in the kitchen and he couldn't sit still so TV was out. So he…wandered. He went up and down hallways, rattled around in the silos, skipped stones on the beach. Nothing seemed to calm him down. He couldn't for the life of him wind down after the rescue. It was getting dark in the South Pacific, he really should be sleeping.

Virgil said as much from where he bent immovably over a diagnostic computer in the silo. "Gordon, for the love of…will you hit the sack already? You keep this up and you're going to fall asleep at the wheel and ditch the Cessna when it's your turn to go to the mainland."

Gordon snorted. "Pot. Kettle."

"I'm older. I get to stay up longer," Virgil replied absently, scanning line after line of code with unmatched intensity.

"Yeah, when you were, like, seven," Gordon huffed. "You found anything on the bulldozer mainframe yet?"

"No," Virgil said flatly. "And it'd probably go a lot faster without someone constantly banging around back there."

Gordon knew that edge in his brother's voice. Time to disappear before he caused a psychotic break. "I can tell when I'm not wanted."

"I'm amazed," Virgil snarked. "You've finally picked up that skill."

Gordon snapped. "No need to act like a jerk just 'cause you can't see the problem yet and your obsessive mind won't leave it alone."

Virgil opened his mouth for a retort, and stopped. "Er…Gordon?"

"What?" Gordon asked in a bad grace.

"How much exactly," Virgil asked in a strange, strained voice. "Do you know about programming?"

"A little," Gordon came forward, and stopped. After a while, he continued. "Enough to know that's not normal…"

On the screen, flickering in neon green, the lines began scrolling.

C:.altmove.4444879000rt67/1601000156 0000000000angerdeathalonedeathhearattentionseealoneinvisibledeathangerregretdeathsadnessalonedeathangerhelpsavedeathangerangerangerdeathangerangerANGERANGERDEATHANGERANGERHELPANGERANGERANGERANGERANGERANGERANGERANGERANGER….

----------------------------------------------------

"There _was_ someone driving it then," Jeff's eyes were cold, and his tone was flat. If any of his sons had been there, they would have been heading for cover before the hurricane hit.

Brains drew patterns on the table with jerky fingers, his higher brain functions clicking away. "Yes, s-sir."

Jeff felt his wrath rise in an acid wave. Some…some _idiot_ had nearly gotten his son killed! Life was hard enough to get through just dealing with accidents, let alone dealing with intent.

Why drive a bulldozer through a boarding school dormitory? Well, yes, there were a lot of trust fund sons living in it, but that would make it a target for kidnapping more than murder. Terrorism? Someone would have claimed responsibility by now if that was the case.

Maybe Virgil or Gordon had spotted something pertinent when they were dealing with the machine. He would get a full report from them later.  
"I w-w-was unable to see the b-b-b…machine, the b-b-building was too unstable. But I m-m-marked the l-l-line of the entrance p-p-point."

"Right," Jeff grimaced over the awful cafeteria coffee. Well, there was not much more they could do, at least until they could get right into the building. Jeff intended to know every detail.

Jeff was tired, his back and shoulders ached tensely, the coffee was bad, and nothing in the situation was improved by the appearance of the hospital administrator at his elbow.

"Mr Tracy, sir," the man bounced, literally bounced, up to him and pumped his hand enthusiastically. "It's an honour. Ike Sadler, sir, I'm the head administrator here. I'd just like to assure you, Mr Tracy, that your son is receiving the very finest care we can provide."

"Yes, thank you, Mr Sadler," Jeff extracted his hand as politely as possible, wondering how in the hell he was going to get out of this particular conversation.

Sadler was not put out. "If there's anything we can provide to make his stay more comfortable, please don't hesitate to ask. Anything at all."

"Of course," Jeff said, contriving to indicate with his tone that while he was perfectly happy to talk to hospital administrators on most occasions, this wasn't one of them.

"Of course, our care is the finest in the state," Sadler paved on. Jeff listened with half an ear as he heard a strange noise coming from the entrance area. "I don't know if you've heard of our Outreach program…"

"D-D-Dad!"

Brains jerked awake out of whatever hypothesis taking up his frontal lobe. "Fermat?"

The boy came screaming into the cafeteria from the elevator rack at high speed, looking flustered and desperate. You could tell by the stutter. "Mr T-T-Tracy, i-i-it's Al-Al-Al…"

There was a shrieking explosion from the far wall. The door leading to the stairwell popped loose and spun into the cafeteria. It all happened in the blink of an eye - so fast that it had landed heavily and collapsed a table before Jeff had managed to drag Sadler to the ground. There were shouts and screams mingled in with the crash of falling crockery. Jeff felt a cold, _cold_ wind pass over his back. Looking towards Brains, he saw the lanky scientist huddled protectively over his son on the floor. Good, all was accounted for.

He stared at the door, and beyond it, the doorway, whose frame had billowed and bulged under the force of the explosion. There was a smoky haze and shadows beyond.

Jeff was driven to his feet, and dragged Sadler up with him. "Where are the other stairs?" he demanded sharply. The man was fish belly white and his mouth was opening and shutting silently. "_Where_?" Jeff shook him slightly.

"I…they're down the other end of the building, and round to the right," Sadler stammered out.

Jeff let him go. "Call the police and evacuate," he ordered. "Don't argue, just do it!" Jeff turned away to face Brains. "You okay?"

Brains had a white knuckled grip around his son. He nodded as he straightened his glasses.

"Okay. Let's go."

Jeff didn't know why he knew his son was in danger. But he hadn't gotten where he was today by ignoring his instincts, especially when they stood up and screamed.

---------------------------------------------

Dean opened his eyes, and was momentarily disorientated by the fact he was pressed against a wall and people were walking on it. He was momentarily less disorientated, since it wasn't like he hadn't woken up on the floor before in his wilder teenage-and-adult years. _Then_, after this mere fraction of a second, his hunters senses clicked on and drove him halfway up off the hospital floor. Leaning on one hip and one elbow, his eyes scanned with razor focus until he found Sammy's prone form lying face down on the off-white linoleum.

Spinning on the floor, Dean slid over to him. "Sammy? Sam?"

Sam jerked upwards, bringing his arm around instinctively to defend. "Dean?"

"Sam?" Dean's eyes ghosted microscopically over his brother, looking for telltale red stains or awkward angles. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Sam was breathing hard. He looked forward to the glass entrance doors. "_Jesus_…."

Dean looked, and felt even his jaded eyebrows rise.

The steel, spring-loaded door that was once part of the stairwell was stuck like an arrow through the glass of the wide automatic doors of the hospital. With adrenaline filled clarity Dean noted the tilted slope of the twisted metal that had bits of diamond glass from the half shattered auto door sliding over it like rain. The auto doors were trying to open and close, but the stairwell door stuck through it like a three dimensional Escher was stopping it from moving more than a few inches, making the steel wave back and forth .

The brothers looked back. The doorframe was now more of an archway, and icy frost was forming on the metal edges. People were stampeding back and forth in front of the scene.

A young oriental man appeared at Sam's side as the two of them sprang up.

"Are you both alright? No injuries?"

"We're fine…doctor," Dean added as he noticed the white coat.

"I'm amazed," the young doctor looked it. "I think it went right between you two. You're lucky it wasn't on the wide part of it's spin." He turned and grimaced at a nurse who was covered in glass shrapnel. "Stick around, okay? Get checked out before you leave."

"Yeah, right," Sam nodded absently as the doctor moved away. He was staring at the misty stairwell. He moved toward it.

Dean grabbed his sleeve. "Hold on, Sundance Kid," he cut in sharply. "If this is a ghost, we're going to need the shotgun at least."

"Right," Sam shook himself.

Dean scooped up a fire extinguisher from the wall and used it to remove the panes from the unshattered auto door. Seeing an escape, panicking folk followed them out in a stream, adding to the confusion. The Winchester's headed for the Impala, and Sam looked back at the hospital while Dean popped the trunk.

"That thing is definitely heading for Alan," he said, pushing his hair out of his eyes.

Dean grunted, and loaded his shotgun with the white cartridges with workmanlike ease. "He must have pissed someone off. Here," he handed his brother a nine millimetre. "Come on. Let's send it back to the grave before it makes any more of 'em."

------------------------------------------

Scott swung around and was on his feet at the first scream. "Stay here," he ordered Alan, who had sat up at the noise and was now wincing past his ribs.

It was two strides to the door and a sharp twist on the handle to get…

The shock sent Scott onto his back, air driven from his lungs. He tried to draw breath past his clenched muscles.

"Scott!" Alan cried, and heaved himself up, trying to twist out of the sheets and blankets.

Scott got onto his side and waved him back with one hand. "No…stay…"

The door blasted open with and arctic chill, nearly ripping the door of it's hinges. There wasn't wind, but there was the _howl_ of the wind, all the fury of a hurricane distilled to a whistling, agonising screech. Scott forced his body halfway up as the lights popped like balloons and showered the room in glass, leaving it in a bluish murk.

"Alan," Scott groaned, trying to get his long legs under him. "Alan?"

_Something_, he didn't know what, he couldn't see it and didn't hear it coming, dragged his bent up legs out from under him. His forehead cracked onto the linoleum dusted with fragile bulb glass, but before he could even orientate himself, the drag was there again. He didn't feel any hands, any person's presence, but some nitrogen coldness had gripped him hard and was pulling him toward the twisted doorway. Twisting on the floor, Scott clawed desperately on the smooth floor and felt something strike, in order, his foot, bent knee, midriff and then chin. He latched into the door jam with white knuckled hands.

"Scott!" Alan pulled himself out of the bed, landed on his splinted foot and staggered. He clutched for support to the gurney, only it wasn't a stationary object any more. It jerked and shook, and in one sharp move it swung; slamming into Alan and pushing him to the floor. He rolled desperately when it moved toward him, one squeaky wheel an eerie locator beacon.

"Alan!" Scott yelled, fighting whatever current was yanking at him tooth and nail. Bracing on one forearm, he stretched an arm toward his little brother, snatching at him, and his grip was ripped loose. Alan watched, shocked, as Scott was thrown all the way to the room opposite, sliding along the frictionless floor.

The gurney moved again, this time spinning on it's wheels like a top, whirring as it headed for Alan. Alan hauled himself out of the way as slalomed past and smashed into one of the wall hard.

Scott sat up. "_Alan_!" Clawing upright, he launched himself back towards the room as the cracked door shook and rattled, then slammed shut hard enough to shake the walls.

"Scott!" The voice came from down the hall. Jeff came skidding up with Brains and Fermat bringing up the rear. "Scott! What happened?"

"Dad," Scott said breathlessly. "The door…something's in there! With Alan! The door…"

The door was forming an icy frost crust, steam puffing up across the surface.

"_What_?" Brain's voice was like a long, slow release breath.

Scott slapped his hands into the door, and felt the icy sting. He slammed his shoulder into it.

Jeff pulled him back. "Together, two, three!"

The combined weight of both Tracy's didn't budge it. The door gave a squeaking thump. "S-s-sir," Brains was shaking his head. "The d-d-door his de-de-de…warped. It's we-we-wedged."

Jeff gritted his teeth as he looked over the distorted reflections in the shine of the door. Brains was right, they'd need to cut the door away to get it to give up. He pounded on the door with a desperate fist. "Alan? Alan? Can you hear me? Alan, say something!"

There was a crashing, shattering sound coming from the room, but Alan hadn't made a sound.

Fermat looked around as he was knocked about by stampeding hospital staff who were evacuating patients in a desperate rush. He looked at the gaping open doors of the corridor…doors…

He reached out to snag Scott by his sleeve. "C-con-con-connecting door!" He darted into the room next to Alan's which indeed had a door through the room walls.

This one was steaming too, and was ice cold. "What the _hell_ is this?" Scott exclaimed, feeling carefully around the handle. No shock, but it was so cold one skin layer was stripped off.

"Alan!" Jeff pounded on the door, throwing his shoulder into it. There were thumps and rattles from beyond, all the more terrifying for being unseen. Scott kicked at it furiously.

"He-he-here!" Brains appeared from behind, carrying a titanium bone saw he'd raided from the surgical ward at the other end of the floor. Jeff snatched at it, and, heart pounding, began to drive it through the hinge points.

----------------------------------------

Alan panted hard from his half curled position in the floor, squinting through the dark to try to pick up the tiniest hint of his assailant. His breath frosted in the air in front of his face.

Can't walk, he thought. Can't fight real well either with the ribs, which screeched with every twitch. Coughing painfully, he stayed half crouched on his good foot at the ominous squeal of the one bad gurney wheel. He threw himself to the side as the thing spun towards him again. It caught him on his bad arm as it smashed into the far wall.

Doubled over from the white pain, Alan thought for a minute that people had gotten in.

There were voices…

They were angry, babbling words. Furious, enraged whispers, both a din and a murmur. _You…why…special…you…attention…help…look…see…why…alone…help…look see why you best never whathelplookpaywhyeverwhyangerwhyangerangeranger**anger**_**…**

If emotions could have a voice they would sound like that.

Alan looked around wildly, looking for the source. The gurney rattled again.

This time it rolled _though the air_ like it was being flipped by a hurricane wind. Alan shot backward but got clipped by it as it went overhead. Bloody nosed and stunned, he lay flat on his back on the floor.

_Help…Dad…Scott…_

He thought he was seeing things. There, standing near the wreckage of the bed, was a slender figure. It was nothing but a silhouette, but Alan could feel it as it turned to face him. The words became a sonic scream, bouncing and re-bouncing across the walls.

The figure…it didn't move right. It seemed to flicker in and out of existence. When it was still it barely moved, but when it moved it was too fast, too jerky. It was all the way across the room one instant, then in a flash it was right before Alan, as if he'd blinked at the wrong moment and had missed the travel time in the intervening space.

And then it was _standing_ over him, right in his face. For moment it looked like it was extending a helping hand…

Alan rolled. He didn't see the strike, but he felt it through his cheekbones. The cracks webbed under his face. Rolling back, he couldn't see the figure anymore. He felt with his hand to where his head had been.

There was a pit, no, there was a _crater_ in the _floor_. Underneath the sterile linoleum there was a good foot thick slab of reinforced concrete, because hospitals are one of the few modern buildings that are built to last. Whatever it was, Alan realised with a tense chill, had made impressive headway in punching straight through it.

Alan whirled in the dark, besieged, at the explosion of noise that roared out again.

----------------------------------------

The crippled staircase held no fears for the Brothers Winchester, although in their haste they failed to notice the trail of stream rising from the basement level. They slipped and slid up the frosty risers up three flights and out the tangled doorway with a fit speed, and down to the corridor leading to Alan's room. The steaming door was abandoned, but somewhere past the thumps and rattles and screeches of an angry spirit, there was the whine of a saw.

Sam carefully put his hand on the door and gave it an experimental shove. He turned to Dean and shook his head.

"Move," Dean ordered, levelling the shotgun. Sam ducked aside.

The load of rock salt was not enough to damage the door, but it left a glittering blast circle that scythed off the frost. The door moved slightly.

Sam swung back around and slammed his shoulder hard into the salted surface. The door creaked and groaned and fought but it gave a few inches. It tried to slam back but Sam dug in his heels. Sam played with the idea of sticking his foot in, but immediately dismissed it – if he tried it he'd probably get his foot chopped off. "Dean, get the shotgun in!"

Dean reached under his brother and jammed the barrel into the door as far as it would go. "Okay, hang on!" He fired the second round into the room.

Sam was suddenly winning the battle against the door. He strained against the force holding it closed, slowly levering it open as Dean reloaded. He got it all the way open as Dean yelled. "Duck!" and fired twice straight into the space, personally assured that a round of rock salt wouldn't kill a living person.

The first round hit the gurney as it was thrown through the air toward the intruders. It was sideways when it reached the open doorway, so it merely barred the opening. The load showered the twisted up remains and it collapsed, rolling backwards into the room and toppling. The second one was dead on target to the telltale flickering shadow – with a scream that was nearly a sonic boom, it vanished.

There was a slamming noise from the connecting door. Two more solid thumps, and the butt end of a fire extinguisher could be seen battering past the lock.

Sam turned at the sound of running footsteps and cursed. He snagged Dean's shoulder as he tried to get into the room and dragged him down the hall into a random ward as the footsteps stampeded around the hall corner.

"Dude, what…?"

"Shh! Boys in blue," Sam waved a thin hand as the beat cops thundered towards the noise coming from the rooms.

Dean grimaced. They were in the middle of an emergency situation and they were the only ones with guns. The authorities could be pretty leery about things like that. They couldn't afford to get arrested.

The cops were swarming around the scene, spreading out and checking the rooms. Dean shoved the shotgun and a spare hand gun at Sam. "Here. I'll make them look the other way; you get the gear out of here. Meet me at the car."

Sam barely had time to nod before Dean swung out into the corridor, making a direct beeline toward the epicentre of the police presence.

"Hey guys! What the hell's going on?" Dean demanded in his special 'whiny citizen' voice, guaranteed to scrape across the nerves of law enforcement everywhere. "I'm mean, hot damn, I just came here to visit my little brother and there's all this banging around! What is it, a bomb or something?"

Dean shot through the group like a pike through the minnows and spun around abruptly, making sure they were all facing him.

Sam nodded to him as he silently slipped down the hall to the damaged stairs, and shadowed inside, out of sight.

----------------------------------------------------

Scott threw his shoulder into the blow, and the door finally popped loose and fell in. Both Tracy's fell over themselves shoving inside the hospital room.

"Alan!"

Jeff reached the gurney and tossed the heavy thing aside as if it were a feather. Alan was half curled beneath it, bloody faced and battered. "Alan? _Alan_!"

Alan moved, nearly bringing Jeff's near coronary experience to completion. He opened his eyes to merely slits, and weakly moved his arms, trying to fend off an unseen attacker.

"No, no, it's okay," Jeff crooned softly, getting his son into half a cradle as Scott knelt down next to them and took and hold of Alan's writhing hands. "Shhhh, stay still, stay still."

The police were at the door. "Are you alright, sir?"

"No!" Scott snapped. "Don't just stand there, get a doctor!"

"I'll g-g-go," Fermat volunteered, and left the room at a speedy clip. His father reappeared, lanky hands closed around gauze bandages and other medical supplies he'd been able to round up. Together they bent over Alan, trying to help in any way they could. They paid no attention to the noise outside, or anything else but Alan. The police were calling it in, and spreading out to check the rest of the building for survivors and suspects both.

One of them kicked something across the room unknowingly. It bounced lightly off Scott's leg. He flicked a glance over whatever it was irritably, and then a second later dragged his eyes back over it.

A shotgun casing?

He picked it up slowly, as if it would blow up. Momentarily distracted from his brother's care, he turned the sinister looking thing over in his hand. There was telltale blackness on it, and yes, it smelt like burning gunpowder. He hadn't been certain what he'd heard in those tense moments with the saw outside the room. He couldn't see how it could have been gunfire, and nothing could have torn him from the door. But now…

Someone had _fired_ a _shotgun_ at his little brother?

Someone was going to _die_.

"Scott," Jeff's intense voice brought him back into the present.

"Yes, sir," Scott answered promptly.

"Get outside," Jeff ordered. "Call Lady Penelope. Ask her to check on the whereabouts of the Hood."

Scott shook his head. "If he's escaped, we would have known about it by now."

Jeff's eyes traced the floor in a fierce scowl. Scott followed his gaze…was that a dent in solid cement?

"Check anyway," Jeff replied softly. "Ask her to warm up her network, check for…affiliates and the like."

"Yes, sir," Scott squeezed Alan's hands gently. "I'll be right back, Sprout, okay?"

Alan was only halfway aware as it was, but he turned slightly glazed eyes towards Scott and nodded with a grunt. Scott gently touched his brother's forehead, and then unfolded himself from the floor, leaving his father and Brains to deal with the triage.

He got out the door and, after getting a few directions from the cowed guarding officers, headed down to the other side of the hospital, toward the safe staircase at the other end. He was so caught up in his thoughts – white hot, angry, stampeding thoughts - that he only noticed the second person on the stairwell when he himself was one landing down. Idly looking down, he expected to see a cop or one of the hospital staff. Instead he saw…

…a familiar solid form in a rumpled business suit and an ill fitting short haircut.

Suddenly all Scott's angers and fears and post-trauma adrenaline rolled together with his instincts and reached critical mass. "Hey! You!" he bellowed.

Past the red mist, Scott noted that the guy only flicked a glance in his direction – a split second, veteran professional assessment, and then shot out of the nearest door.

Scott was off like a runner from the starting blocks however, and the guy must have known that he couldn't outrun him in a confined space, because Scott walked into the attack just as he came out of the stairwell door.

Dean's fist caught him in the stomach and it only because Scott instinctively twisted that it didn't completely drive the breath from him. Fighting an instinctive gag, Scott half fell against the wall next to the door, and reflexively swung a backhand out in a wide sweep, just catching Dean across the neck. Forced to shift his weight, Dean kicked hard at Scott's knee, and grappled with his hands, pulling him up and then slamming him back against the wall. Scott had the height advantage on him, so Dean had to keep him off balance.

Scott was not without tricks too. Fighting a stagger, he blocked Dean's incoming fist and brought his other hand around to twist the arm, and twist Dean's upper body around so he couldn't make an offensive swing. Dean responded by treading on Scott's foot and twisting his own foot, sliding Scott's leg out from under him. As Scott lost his balance, Dean's elbow, a helpful friend in many a bar fight, swung back around and swatted Scott square on the jaw.

He took Scott's arms in a solid grip, and used his body weight to pin him. "Look, I don't know what your problem is, but you just better back the hell off," Dean snarled right in his face.

Scott coughed. "Like hell I will," he rasped. "That was my brother you were firing at."

Dean hadn't known they'd been seen; damn. He scowled. "We're trying to protect him." He slammed Scott back as he tried to break the iron restraint Dean had put on him. "And you're in no position to not listen. You've practised in a gym but I was trained by a Marine and I've fought in half the bars in this freakin' country." He smirked.

Scott's nails drove themselves into the skin of Dean's arms and he gripped back. Momentarily caught off guard, Dean was unprepared for Scott's head coming forward and slamming him like a lead weight right between the eyes.

Dean staggered back and brought his arms up in a defensive position as stars swam in his vision. Scott followed his stagger with a lunge and the second punch hit him like an iron bar as the taller man tackled him to the floor.

Dean opened his eyes to the slightly battered smirk of Scott Tracy. "Trained by the Air Force and I have four younger brothers," he replied, pinning Dean's hands. "Now are you going to come quietly or and we going to do this the fun way?"

Dean writhed and bucked, trying to lever Scott off-centre, all the while cursing, both inside and out because quite frankly, Scott had a bit of an edge in this position.

And his training too. Dean knew all about training with little brothers. He knew for a fact that a fifty-member bar brawl was a cake walk to anyone who had mastered little brother-fu. Little brothers fought _dirty_.

"Always a fan of the fun way," Dean hissed through gritted teeth. His knee came up like it was spring loaded and caught Scott hard dead in the solar plexus, lifting him up and throwing him back.

Dean was vaguely tempted to see who would win if they kept brawling, but he didn't have time to waste here. He levered himself up and was down the corridor before Scott had finished curling into a coughing, gagging ball.

Scott forced air back into his lungs, choking on a stab from his diaphragm. He watched Dean's sideways figure disappear down into the door and heard him on the stairs. "Damn," he panted, and forced his sore body to unclench slowly. He managed to get up, but his pace was limping for the first dozen strides or so, giving Dean a more than long enough head start. By the time Scott reached a lobby and its destroyed doors, Dean had disappeared into the crowds and chaos of the evacuees outside the hospital.

Scott felt like kicking the wall. Maybe it had been stupid to get into a fight, but there was a lot of stuff going on here that he didn't get, and that made his protective nature hit something approaching defcon four. Dean and the other guy….whatshis…Sam, they had something to do with this. Dean hadn't denied using the shotgun. The bastard.

Scott ran a hand over his face, and forced himself to be calm. Dean was gone and he had things to do. He dug around for his phone, and was surprised to see to was undamaged. He punched his way through the phone book with pursed lips, still smouldering. What the hell was he supposed to do? More than that, what the hell was happening?

A flash of black caught his eye, Normally it wouldn't have merited a second glance, but he was the son of an engineer and had an eye for interesting machines. An old fashioned car like the one pulling out of the parking lot was a rare sight these days.

Scott looked closer, and blinked. Apparently the most interesting thing about this machine, if he wasn't very much mistaken, was that it was being driven by the second of the two danger signals Scott had met today.

Scott smiled grimly. An old fashioned black Chevy? _Gotcha_…

-------------------------------------------

"What the hell happened to you?" Sam asked incredulously as they pulled out of the parking lot and onto the road. Dean was dishevelled and his forehead and jaw bore livid marks.

Dean grunted. "Had a bit of a misunderstanding with a Tracy."

"You started a fight with a family member?" Sam stared at him.

"No," Dean growled. "He started a fight with me. Sometimes it is the other guy, you know."

Sam smirked. "Yeah. Sometimes."

Dean shot his brother an acid glare and rubbed his chin. "Pull over for a sec."

Sam obediently pulled the car off the road to an inconspicuous spot. "What do you think's going on here, anyway?" Sam asked as Dean twisted around in the bucket seat to ferret in the back seat. "Have you ever heard of a poltergeist haunting a person? Poltergeists are usually location centred, not people centred."

"Hmn," Dean made a noncommittal noise and he turned back around with a duffel bag in hand. "Two words. Hook Man."

Sam shook his head. "The Hook Man followed a set pattern pretty rigidly. He followed his legend exactly."

"You don't think wholesale destruction is a pattern?" Dean asked sardonically.

"If that were the case, then ninety percent of the things we've fought is the same poltergeist," Sam negated. "There's no…underlying signature. The first time there was a bulldozer. This time it took an actual form. It keeps changing around. This time it was stronger, it caused more direct destruction, it did it in daylight."

Dean shook his head. "Enough brainstorming. Here," he shoved the bag over to Sam. "Supplies. Get to a library, geek boy, find out what's going on here. I'll poke around the hospital, make sure nothing else happens."

"Are you sure you should be the one doing it?" Sam raised an eyebrow. "You won't be welcome if they notice you."

"I'll park outside the hospital grounds and hang around the lobby and the outside," Dean shrugged. "You got a better idea? We can't put a circle of salt around a building full of dying people."

Sam grimaced at the thought of trapping a whole choir of ghosts in one place. They'd have enough haunting to fill a century. "Yeah, but I could do that, and _you_ could go to the library."

"Oh no, no way," Dean waved a finger. "The last time we did this you got to watch the pretty girl and I got to dig up a corpse. My turn to do the fun stuff. Go do what you do best, geek boy."

He reached across his brother and opened the door of the car, unceremoniously shoving the younger man out. "Get going. And while you're at it, check up on the Tracy family. There might be more to the wealth than meets the eye."

"Supernatural investments?" Sam suggested.

"They wouldn't be the first millionaires to get it that way. I put that thing we got out of the dorms in there too. Keep it in the salt."

Dean levered himself onto the drivers seat. "Call me," he said as he started up the car, and slammed the door shut.

Sam reacted just a second too late. "Dean, wait, wait! I don't know…!…how to get…there," he finished vainly as the Impala disappeared down the road. "Gee thanks, bro."

Sam sighed. It wasn't like he hadn't learned to think of solutions to every problem in a split second. He flipped open his cell and punched in a number. "Directory? I need to know where the libraries are…"

--------------------------------------------

"I suppose it would be silly of me to ask you to try and stay out of trouble for the next few weeks?"

Alan adjusted the icepack on his eye. "Wasn't my idea," he mumbled defensively.

They had moved to the open trauma rooms on the ground floor and the room was filled with cops and guards. Outside, there was the sound of controlled chaos as patients and staff were slowly readmitted into the hospital and a general patchwork cleaning up being done. Dr Yoong readjusted the bandages over Alan's foot and looked up wryly at the young man's comment. "Still, it's something to consider."

Alan gave up and looked over at his Dad, who was in one corner going back and forth with Officers Tuey and Garreto again. Alan could tell just from the look on his Dad's face that he was frustrated and angry. Alan could just about guess what the questions were too; have you made any enemies? Would anyone want to hurt your family? Any death threats recently? Do you know anyone who could do something like this?

Jeff was answering their questions as honestly as he could, but what could he say? Yes, Officers, I have had an altercation with a man who could do it. He vowed revenge too, if that's any help. I last saw him when he was trying to kill my son after he stole one of my Thunderbirds to break into the Bank of London after, incidentally, trapping me and my boys up on the family space station….

The scenario was ludicrous, even if he could get them to believe it.

Scott re-emerged from his phoning duties and made a beeline for Alan. "Are you okay, Sprout," he asked anxiously. "Is he okay?" he turned to the doctor.

"He could have done without the experience, but his luck still holds," Dr Yoong shrugged. "I had to readjust the alignment of his foot, so he'll have to go for another x-ray in a minute, just to make sure I've totally botched the job," he shot Alan a grin, then continued. "CT shows a light concussion and he had to be re-strapped around the torso. You were lucky you didn't cause any more damage to your ribs."

Alan winced. "Wasn't my idea," he mumbled again. His head was throbbing in a tight, hot way. "Scott…you're face's all…" Alan waved a hand drunkenly.

Jeff's fingers gently probed his eldest's rapidly purpling cheek. "Who'd you pick a fight with?" he asked softly.

Scott grimaced. "I'll give you a play-by-play in a minute." He gratefully took the icepack dryly being proffered by Dr Yoong, ignoring his murmured comment about family traits. "You're in the doghouse with Lady P, by the way, for not calling sooner."

Jeff winced a little at that, and shot Alan a fatherly glare at the snort of laughter. "Doctor, I want to release my son. How soon can we arrange transport?"

Dr Yoong suddenly went stone serious. "With due respect, sir, that is a nut bar of an idea. Your son has a concussion to deal with now, on top of other injuries. Not a bad one, but enough to merit at least twenty-four hours of neuro checks. It would be reckless and dangerous to take him out of the hospital."

"As things stand now, Doctor, it would be reckless and dangerous to keep him in the hospital," Jeff replied flatly. "My sons are medics, we can deal with a concussion."

"Sir," Dr Yoong sounded like he wanted to clip Jeff over the ear. "If I've been reading my lifestyles of the disgustingly wealthy quarterly right, you live on an island, right? Those ribs of his are floating right now, sir. One wrong move and he's got a punctured lung or an impaled spleen or worse. Unless you've got a live-in surgeon, you've going to be a couple of hundred miles away from help. Jesus Christ, it would be _stupid _to just take him now. Don't let your protectiveness get in the way of your common sense, sir. I know you know I'm right."

Scott broke in. "We can keep an eye on him, Dad. And the police will stay," he offered.

Jeff ground his teeth. There was nothing for it, it's not like he could give a better argument than _'he's safe on the island with his family and he's _my_ son so I should know.'_

"Alan," he asked softly. "What do you think?"

Alan opened his eyes. "I think if I get on the plane I'm going to be sick," he groaned. "But I want to go home."

Dr Yoong rubbed an eyebrow. "How about a compromise? I'll see if I can pare down the observation time to about thirty hours or so. Then, if there are no complications, we'll argue again."

"Never say die, huh?" Scott raised a wry eyebrow.

"What better philosophy for a doctor?" Dr Yoong replied calmly. He scribbled on his clipboard. "Okay Alan, time to wheel you over to the x-ray and pump you full of radiation. Orderly!"

Jeff squeezed his sons' hand. "I'll be there in just a minute, Alan."

Scott watched at Alan was wheeled out and removed the icepack from his aching face.

"Well?" Jeff asked, sounding faintly disapproving.

Scott gave a full account of his arrival and subsequent events as succinctly as he could.

Jeff was unhappy. "Do you have any idea why they were here?"

Scott scowled and handed Jeff a card. "I found that on the nightstand in Alan's room. If it's a real name I'll eat my Thunderbird. I never saw that Dean guy fire the shotgun, but he didn't deny it. They're driving around in a classic black Chevy, easy to spot."

"If they wanted to hurt Alan, they could have done it before you got there, though. A person who fires a shotgun in the middle of a hospital clearly isn't worrying about being subtle."

"I thought that, too," Scott nodded, frustrated. "But I don't like it, Dad."

Jeff nodded. "I don't either. Give a description of both of them and the car to the police before you go. Make sure they're arrested if they try to get too close. There's not much else we can do but that, I'm not wasting resources hunting them down when they could be better spent right here."

"Go?" Scott repeated blankly.

"After we get Alan settled in and we've organised things, I need you to take Brains and Fermat back to the Island," Jeff jerked his chin toward the waiting area outside. The scientist had a hunched over posture and an arm around his son, and sure sign that he felt under attack.

"Dad," Scott protested. "I only just got here! Brains has a pilots license, doesn't he?"

"I don't think we should put him behind the wheel of anything just now," Jeff replied. Brains was a lot better under pressure than anyone would guess, least of all him. But when everything was over his _entire brain_ was switched on and wouldn't stop thinking, making him almost totally blind to the present; he was so busy analysing the past.

"Scott, I know you want to stay, but I think the less targets here the better," Jeff ran fingers through his hair. "Get back to the Island. One of others can come out, I guess. He'll be home in a day or so anyway."

Scott grunted a grudging assent. "Oh, before I forget," he added. "John wants to come down. He suggested sending Fermat up with Brains so they can do some diagnostic work."

Jeff gave that a quick pass through his head to look for flaws. "Okay, that sounds like a fair blanket solution. Run it past Brains, but I doubt he'll have a problem with it."

"Dad," Scott asked uneasily. "What the hell is going on here? The police don't even know what caused the damage. It wasn't a bomb, it wasn't a noisemaker, a gas mine or anything else, but there was definitely a dent in that floor."

"I don't know," Jeff replied bitterly. "That why I hate it."

------------------------------------------

Noon moved into late afternoon, almost on the cusp of evening, and Alan was finally able to get some sleep after reluctantly saying goodbye to Scott. Guards thronged the halls around his private room, and his father, stubble ridden and dishevelled, wasn't leaving his side. Scott headed to the airstrip with his two passengers, and met Virgil mid-landing.

"Virgil?"

"Gordon lost the toss," Virgil tugged out a couple of bags. "I've got some stuff to show Dad, anyway. I've brought his overnight bag too. Hi guys, how's it going?" he waved at Brains and Fermat, who had approached.

"Hi Vir-Virgil," Fermat grinned, eyes alight. "I g-g-get to go up on Thunderbird F-Five before Alan." He snickered.

"I bet he went green when you told him that," Virgil laughed.

"He's p-p-p-pretty green in an-an-any ca-ca-ca…already, I th-th-think you'll find," Brains commented dryly as he hustled his son up the small plane stairs. "We-we'll go file a f-f-fl-fli-flight plan."

"Be there in a minute," Scott waved them up. "You heard what happened?" he asked Virgil seriously.

"Yeah," Virgil hissed a breath through his teeth. "Jesus Christ, Scott, why isn't Dad bringing him home?"

Scott shrugged tensely. "Concussion, from a flying gurney no less."

Virgil shook his head. "Concussion," he waved a derisive hand. "I could handle a concussion blindfolded. Hell, we all could."

"The doctors are worried about complications," Scott replied, but Virgil could hear the dissent in his brother's voice. "Another day or so and they'll back off."

Virgil kicked a stone next to his foot. "And they still have no idea what is going on here? Didn't Alan see someone?"

"He said he did, but the room was dark and he's just been clobbered," Scott's lips were a thin line. "So he wasn't sure. He said it didn't move right, but that could have been just the crack on the head messing up his vision, I don't know. I didn't see anyone, hear anyone, but somebody tossed me out of that room."

"I thought when I first heard it that the bomb had caused some sort of explosion/implosion effect from a vacuum bomb had messed with the doors, but I've never heard of it making ice before," Virgil mused.

"We'll figure it out," Scott said. "In the meantime, keep you eyes peeled for a half century black Chevy and the two guys driving it – one's stocky, short haired, blonde to light brown colouring and green eyes. The other's taller, thin build, brown on brown."

"Dad said something about you getting into a brawl with one of then," Virgil smiled slyly. "Tut-tut Scotty. Bruised is such an awful look."

"Shaddap," Scott muttered. "He probably fired a shotgun at Alan. All bets were off."

"Ah," Virgil replied, looking less amused. "Well, that's all right, then. You better get going, and be prepared – Gordon is a foul mood."

"Gotcha," Scott nodded, and they parted ways.

--------------------------------------------

Dean picked up his cell only after he'd slipped into the empty faculty room where there was a good chance of privacy and probably better coffee.  
"So, what'd you find?" he asked Sam who had, according to him, just left the library.

"_I think I may have found something_," Sam said over the line. "_Wharton's Academy has been a school in Massachusetts since the 1800's, except back then it was the Saint Thomas Aquinas School, an institute for the poor and destitute. Most of the students were orphans or kids that needed reforming – and it was pretty Puritan too._"

"So what?" Dean prompted.

"_So between not getting enough food and bad hygiene and no medical help in the vicinity – there wasn't a town anywhere near them back then – a lot of students died there. Kids used to die pretty easily in those days, and being forced to run through the snow and attend Mass at midnight in sub-zero winters and the various injuries that teachers were allowed to inflict those days probably hurried death along. Most of them didn't have homes to send the bodies back to, so naturally_…"

"Wait, don't tell me," Dean cut in with a resigned tone. "That hill thing used to be the cemetery, right?"

"_Good guess_," Sam replied dryly. "_How'd you know?_"

"Same old story," Dean sighed. Honestly, it made you want to give up the whole 'saving people' thing sometimes. There were times when Dean truly believed that the weirdest phenomena in the world was not that there were a few small pieces of ground that were ground zero for ghosts, curses, demons and whatever other supernatural detritus that happened to be out there, but that there were millions of places that weren't and _people kept on missing them_. A thousand square acres of desert to work in for development? Lets pick the one tiny fraction of it that was cursed by a load of dead murdered natives. A piece of land that has had everything built on it destroyed? Lets build on it, it's cheap. A thousand tiny towns in America? Let's stop at that special one which is sacrificing folk to a twisted, fugly scarecrow pagan god.

It was incredible. It was like there was this tiny little signal inside people that made them see if they could play Chicken with the monster trucks of Hell.

Dean snorted cynically to himself and poured himself a cup of doctor coffee. He was no fruity latte man like his brother, but even he had standards higher than those in the hospital cafeteria.

"_It might explain why it's happening now,_" Sam continued. "_Adolescent boys dying cold and hungry and far from home? Pure poltergeist material. The cemetery hasn't been there for fifty years or so, but it was still consecrated ground, which might have kept the ghosts quiet. But now_…"

"Now some idiot is rolling trucks all over it," Dean grunted, leaning back in a chair. He felt more comfortable now – he'd been able to change back into his jeans and leather jacket for one.

"_It might explain why the MO changed_," Sam suggested. "_Maybe we're not dealing with one ghost – maybe we're dealing with a whole pack of them._"

"Oh, perfect," Dean groaned. "Okay. The theory has merit. But what does Alan Tracy have to do with…hang on, hang on," Dean dug around in his wide inner pocket, and drew out a battered book. His Dad's journal. "Dad wrote about something like this," he flipped through the yellowing pages. "Something about how ghosts are attracted towards certain types of people…ah, here we go." Dean eyes flickered over the crabbed and somewhat brief entry. "People who start dabbling in the supernatural, magic, spells, demon leashing, that sort of thing…they kind of…they put a big neon sign over their heads to say to every entity in the vicinity 'here I am'. Start using magic or have it used on you, you might as well paint yourself with honey and go walking in a Grizzly farm. Everything around you starts paying attention."

"_Right_," Sam confirmed. "_That's what I thought. It's like opening the flood gates to heaven and hell. Magic can make you a target for anything supernatural – a big red one._"

"So what are you thinking, then?" Dean asked.

Across town, where his brother couldn't see, Sam Winchester leaned against a lamp post and thought about all the terrible things he'd learned this afternoon. "I think," he said to the winter air. "There might be some sort of…augmentation at work here. Maybe."

"_The kid's trying to magically enhance himself?_" Dean shot back over the phone. "_Do you think he would?_"  
"Well, he's got a billionaire ex-astronaut father," Sam replied slowly, carefully feeling his way through the answer. What he'd found was a tangled up and sinister knot of facts that made Sam's insides ache with…something. "And four older brothers and they all seem to have this Midas touch thing going for them. Seriously, one of them's been decorated by the Air Force, one of them has written textbooks, another one's worked for defence contractors, and the other is an Olympic medallist. They all surf on top of the wave. The pressure's on for Alan."

"_American royalty,_" Dean snorted. "_You think the kid would really try it?_"

Sam stared at nothing while the words lined up in his head from somewhere deep inside. _Yes I do, Dean. I had an augmentation right in front of me once upon a time. I would have done it in a heartbeat too, if I hadn't personally seen the consequences. Even then it was a close thing. I know what that kind of pressure is like. I know what it's like to always feel like you're running to just to keep up. I know what it's like to fear disappointment reflected back at you more that death…  
Once in my life Dean, I would have given anything to be like you…_

To be able to ask the right questions. To be satisfied with the 'how's' and 'how hard's', instead of always asking the 'why's' and 'how come's'. A long time ago, he would have given anything for his father to look at him the same way he looked at Dean. Trust him like he trusted Dean. It was the most horrifying, painful, _lonely_ epiphany of his life, realising he could never be what his Dad needed him to be, not and still be Sam Winchester.

So he had chosen to _be_ Sam Winchester as purely as he could. He had left, gone to college, and he thought he had finally found where he fit.

And then the family demons had come back, literally, and after having his…his…Sam Winchester life ripped apart in front of him, he had finally stopped caring about the why's, and had become what he had so desperately wanted all those years ago, long after he'd ceased wanting it; which was the cruellest irony of all.

Oh, he could have tried to take that life back. He could have gone to the funeral, recovered, followed his plans and dreams along a straight line. But that would have meant leaving Dean alone and turning his back on his Dad, and Sam couldn't do that. Not and still be…well, Sam Winchester, because being Sam Winchester was a hell of a lot more complicated than it looked from the outside.

"Maybe," Sam replied quietly. "Anything happening on your end?"

"_Nothing spooky_," Dean reported, sounding bored. "_One of the nurses told me he's been moved into a ward on the ground floor. I slipped into the security centre and had a look – it's wall to wall guards, so we won't be getting in there to ask him about any extra curricular projects any time soon._"

A nurse? _Mr brother's probably the only hunter in history that can debauch in the middle of a stake out._ He said into the phone "I'll pick up the car and swing back to Wharton's. I'll see if I can find any paraphernalia in his room and ask around about him."

"_Can't you take a cab?_"

Sam snorted, and hung up. "Yeah right."

Sam began his trek back to the car, his thoughts ablaze. _Should I have told Dean the **other **__part? The part where Alan's mother died suddenly when he was a baby? That I'm beginning to see similarities between their family and ours?__That maybe there's yet another family being tossed into the mouthpiece of Hell?_

No. He didn't know anything for sure yet.

-----------------------------------------

Virgil was in a trance like state as he drove – after piloting a Thunderbird, an ordinary car was a kid's toy. He was still putting his mind to the disk he had stashed in with the rest of the stuff. He couldn't explain it, but looking at it gave him an eerie chill. He was still trying to figure out what had happened at the hospital. There were machines that could do anything, it was just a matter of finding the right one. Explosive force, magnetic perhaps, and ice…the ice didn't fit in real well. What could turn a room into a freezer? Well, refrigeration technology, certainly, liquid nitrogen, the cooling system given an extra kick…but why?

Virgil only absently noted what was going on around him, but it sank in eventually. He turned around in his seat.

What are the chances of there being two classic Chevy's in the same town?

It was an Impala, if he was any judge, parked on the roadside. And getting into it…

…_tall, lanky, brown on brown_…

Pulling off the road, he watched the car through the rear view mirror as it peeled off into traffic and down the street. Making a split second decision, Virgil drove over to the same road, and reached for his cell phone.

---------------------------------------------

Jeff jerked fully awake when his phone buzzed silently on the bedside table. His eyes flew to Alan, but his son was sleeping peacefully. "Tracy," he answered warily. He'd already had a burning earful from Lady Penelope, who'd called to ninety-nine percent harangue him and one percent inform him that all was quiet on the Hood front. The man received no visitors and made no calls, and most of his associates were in jail, none of whom seemed to know or care about the Tracy family. It seemed to put a nail in the coffin of that theory.

"_Dad, it's me_," his middle son's voice came over the line.

"Virgil," Jeff smiled. "On the ground?"

"_Yeah. I met Scott at the strip,_" Virgil replied. "_Listen, Dad, I just caught sight of that black classic that Scott was talking about. It was parked a few blocks away from the hospital – one of those guys is in it, and I'm not sure but he seems to be heading for Wharton's._"

Jeff worried at his lip for a moment. "Okay," he said eventually. "Keep tailing but _do not_ confront them in any way. Just see where they go and report back. I mean it, son." Jeff added stonily.

"_Yes, sir_."

----------------------------------------------------------

It was getting close to the dinner hour at Wharton's, but there weren't many to serve. Many students had been taken home temporarily. Heading for the collapsed and twisted shape of the destroyed dorm, Sam was surprised to see people swarming on the site.

Now that was…interesting. They didn't look like federal agents; they looked more like a bunch of private contractors, with some sort of corporate logo on their backs. Serious men in suits with phones attached where on the outside, chattering away, while muscular workers shored up, stacked up and moved boxes in a long chain to stack under a tarp. They were efficiently saving everything they could from the wreckage of the building, sloughing through the icy mud and cold wind.

Sam turned away. He'd have to wait until the site had cleared a bit more before he had a chance to poke around unobtrusively. With any luck, he could find the box of personal goods from Alan's room, and find out if there was anything in there that would point to a magical augmentation.

He was aware of a conversation coming in from the cloisters beyond.

"…not saying we can't, I'm just saying we shouldn't!"

"Don't be such a dork, Ivan. As long as no one finds out, no one will care."

"It's dangerous!"

Two boys emerged from the bend of the courtyard, bickering away. They stopped when they saw Sam.

He raised an eyebrow at them. "If you're thinking of raiding the dorm, you're going to have to get past _all_ of them first," he gestured to the myriad of workers, crowding the site.

One boy looked over the scene and his lips tightened. "They're from my Dad's company. I can get in any time I like," he proclaimed arrogantly, eyes flashing. "What about you? Who are you?"

Sam handed him a card. "Insurance company investigator," he said. He flashed his fake ID jut for good measure. Stuff that in your nose, you arrogant rich brat.

The boy grunted. "Okay, fine. Come on, Ivan, they're ordering takeout for two hundred. Best thing ever served in this school."

The tiny boy called Ivan shrugged. "I'll be with you in a minute."

"Ivan!"

"In a minute! Save some pizza for me, okay?" Ivan brushed his dark haired friend off and looked towards the dorm again. He stared at the roof like it was the only thing that existed while his friend muttered to himself as he disappeared round the corner.

"You must have been in the dorm," Sam guessed accurately.

Ivan looked up, startled. "Yeah. How'd you…"

"I know that look," Sam smiled at him. "The look that says you're still trying to figure out why you're alive."

"Yeah," Ivan admitted. "I nearly died, you know. I nearly fell off the roof." He shuddered. "I just don't understand…I mean, who would do something like this? I mean, it wasn't an accident. I saw that machine; it wasn't running on its own. I just…" Ivan's face twisted up in a mask of agonised bewilderment. "I can't believe, you know, that any one would really do it."

Sam felt some sympathy for Ivan. He knew how bewildering and disorientating a brush with death could be, especially when you didn't understand just what it was attacking you. "Most of the time," Sam offered. "People who do this sort of thing don't mean for it to be bad – at least, they don't intend for it to turn out the way it does. They don't think things through enough, and suddenly everything is out of their control. They're not trying to be evil, which is a point in their favour." Not a big one, Sam added in the privacy of his own head. Not if people are getting killed.

"So, you're trying to find out who, then?" Ivan asked curiously.

"We're trying to stop it from happening again," Sam shrugged. "Next time, people could really die. I doubt whether anyone started this whole thing with that in mind. But since that's the way it turned out, we've got to do something."

"I guess so," Ivan replied politely.

"Hey, do you know anything about Alan Tracy?" Sam asked, suddenly remembering why he was here. "We've got to get some facts on him for the insurance."

"Who, Alan," Ivan blinked. "Alan's okay. He pretty smart and he's pretty brave too."

"Oh yeah?" Sam persisted. "Pretty normal then, huh?"

"Around here? Not really," Ivan grimaced. "He talks about his family. A lot. They're like his heroes or something. A lot of the guys don't see their families much. Alan's Dad calls him every week, at least." Ivan's voice was envious. "Alan's really changed in the last year, though."

"Changed?"

"Well, he joined the ACP – that's the Advanced Course Program. It's this thing you take if you're smart enough to be skipped ahead and stuff."

"Yeah, I know," as a fellow ACPer myself, Sam grinned.

"Alan wasn't really, you know, very bookish," Ivan shrugged. "He was more the PE type. He didn't flunk or anything, but he was always getting caught out daydreaming in class and stuff. They said he came to Wharton's because the last school he was at blew up. But now he's in the ACP's, and you can see he struggles but he sticks with it, and is actually really good at things like physics and shop and stuff. The teachers couldn't believe it. No one ever thought he'd be able to stick with the ACP's. He only just made the standard when he came into them."

"But he's really upped the ante lately," Sam finished, almost to himself. It was an indicator that maybe augmentation was really at work here. Alan really hadn't seemed the type, either… "Do you know any of his teachers I could talk to?"

"I guess…" Ivan turned towards another building. "They're probably in the staff quarter. I'll…I'll show you."

"You don't have to," Sam replied.

"It's okay," Ivan waved a hand. "I guess I have to go there too. I'm in the ACP's too, and I need to check on some makeup work."

Ivan led him around to another building that looked like all the others. They parted ways in the reception area, Sam forging on ahead to the offices beyond, and Ivan staying uneasily in the reception, waiting for someone to come by.

Sam looked around for a likely candidate behind the doors of the offices, each bearing a tiny, neat, black lettered name. Deciding to go on a Dean principle of picking the first one you see and working from there, he moved to knock on the nearest door.

"What are you doing in here?" a sharp voice demanded.

Sam froze. 'Spit Valve' Spivelli was striding up from the reception area, looking pompous and important in his grey suit. He ran a disdainful eye over Sam's suit, which after a day of wear and hunting was beyond rumpled.

"Well?" Spivelli demanded unctuously. "Who are you and what are you doing here?"

Sam blinked. The short, balding man didn't remember him from the hospital, although Dean probably featured strongly in his memory. "I'm…uh," Sam began awkwardly. "Sam Duboir," he held out a card. "From the insurance agency."

Spivelli took the card and scrutinised it. It seemed to pass muster. "Mr Duboir, Anton Spivelli," the man held out a long fingered hand to shake. "I'm the Deputy Headmaster of the Academy, so I suppose you should be talking to me." He gestured the way to his office, which was lit up and had big gold lettering on the front.  
Sam gingerly took a seat in front of the huge desk, technically too big for the room. On his left he was hemmed in by bookcases, on the right there was a sort of side board filled with all sorts of miscellaneous stuff – books, gregarious pens, papers, what looked like knives, watches, games, cards and lots of other stuff. Spivelli's desk was sterile clean and polished. No papers, no pen stand, no photos. Just a monitor. On the window behind there were awards stuck on it that framed the man like a halo.

"So, Mr Duboir," Spivelli sat down and rubbed his hands together. "Can you tell me how much we can expect to claim? I need to know quite shortly, this has been quite devastating financially for the school. We must recoup our losses as soon as possible."

"Uh…Well we haven't finished investigating yet, Mr Spivelli," Sam hedged. "We can't make any…uh determination without all the facts." Sam saw that Spivelli expected more so he added. "We're also investigating an incident at the local hospital involving Alan Tracy…"

"So you're investigating Alan Tracy, then, are you?" Spivelli pounced, almost gleefully. "Let me assure you, Mr Duboir, you need look no further for a culprit."

"Oh? Why?" Sam was startled. You didn't usually find teachers willing to throw their students to the wolves.

"He's a born troublemaker," Spivelli elucidated triumphantly. "A prankster and a delinquent. He's been acting quiet lately, that's usually a sign that they're planning something. I knew it was a bad idea to let him in from day one, after that incident at his last school. There's just no helping foolish brats like him. Complete lack of discipline, complete lack of moral fibre."

Sam tried not to let his opinion on the matter show, but Spivelli wasn't paying any attention to him as he got up and paced. Sam was beginning to see why they called him Spit Valve. When he was enraged, he sprayed spittle.

"I was waiting for him to try something! I knew he was going to do something outrageous. I keep my eyes on the troublemakers, Mr Duboir, there'll be no buying their way out in this school! You either conform to requirements, or you're out the door. Such a shame, too," Spivelli shook his head. "There was such musical talent in his family. Have you ever heard Virgil Tracy play? Such talent. His _father_," Spivelli smeared the man with a pompous lip curl. "Hijacked him into being an engineer. Such a waste."

Sam stared at him. This man wasn't serious, was he? He based merit on _musical talent_? He would have been infuriated by Dean. Trying to avoid being asked to give his own opinion in the matter, Sam's eyes roved the side board again, up and down, until something _very_ peculiar caught his eye. He actually got up to examine it, ignoring the ranting Spivelli.

It was a little model of a house, done in the colours of Wharton's buildings. It was exquisitely made, tiny detailed windows and the big open doorways. He could even see the scored chequered lines of the roof tiles…

…_scored chequered lines_….

"Ah, I see you've found my wall of confiscation," Spivelli came up behind him, sounding proud. "I keep everything here that the students try to sneak into the dorms."

"A model is contraband?" Sam asked, surprised.

"The student was putting food in it – it was attracting rats."

Sam nodded. His eyes were pulled back to the model. Here, his instincts said, here is a part of the answer.  
He extricated himself from the office after a few ambiguous statements meant to soothe and impress, and escaped. The sky was darkening by the time he got out, but if he was reading the parking lot right, the contractors trucks seemed to have vanished for the evening. Maybe now he could take a closer look at Alan's stuff.

Something was jumping in his mind. Something about models…something about houses. He tried to remember where he'd heard it and for some reason it made him think of…wooden benches…

Stanford? Something about house models and Stanford? Most of the Stanford area of his life was in the lock down area of his brain, something he rarely allowed himself to think about or ponder on. Most of it was behind big steel doors.

But there was something there…some vague memory that was just beyond reach.

Lost in thought, he headed for the site.

----------------------------------------------

Virgil got held up by traffic and lost sight of the Chevy somewhere along the way. But that was okay, since they were on the access road to Wharton's and it only went one way. Pulling into the parking lot as twilight suffused the sky, Virgil scanned the area, looking for that telltale last century shape.

Ah, there we are. Virgil circled around it just to make sure it was empty, and pulled in right beside it. He checked it out through the windows. Basic detritus you'd find for someone on the road a lot – maps, bottles of water near to hand, no distracting dangly bits. There was a box of _tapes_, honest to goodness old fashioned cassette tapes, in the back along with a mess of clothes and other stuff just thrown back there.

Looking around carefully, Virgil extracted a tool roll from his duffel and bent down near the trunk end.

He didn't claim to be an expert – he was no Parker, who could probably open it with a toothpick. But he was a mechanic and he understood a little bit about most devices.

He worked at the lock for several minutes, looking around every now and then to make sure the lanky guy wouldn't be back. It took him longer than he thought; the lock looked normal, but it was actually cunningly tooled to be more like a combination lock. It was expertly and subtly done, clearly the work of a professional. No car jacker would find it easy to open it, even with the key. It took knowledge of the movement, clockwise and anti-clockwise turns to break it. And the trunk was reinforced too.  
But Virgil was a patient tinkerer. Eventually it popped open. He lifted the floor tray…

Good grief, they carried an armoury in their car! Every surface was covered with various guns, rifles, weird shiny bullets, white shotgun shells, knives, coshes, brass knuckles. Less common to modern armoury was the set of crossbows, somehow sinister looking daggers, and several pounds of salt. There were also glass bottles. Virgil opened one and smelled it. Not alcohol, no scent at all. Water? But clearly not the drinkable kind. Some very definite looking leather bound books, in what looked like Latin. There were crucifixes and stars of David, little Buddhas, native feather sticks, all sorts of religious icons. It was all very…workmanlike, even the religious stuff. It had the look of well-used tools. Dominating the centre was a couple of packs – big, heavy bulging things, everything an experienced camper might need.

Who the hell _were _these guys? The whole trunk sent mixed messages – somewhere between travelling religious cons and soldiers of fortune.

Virgil closed the trunk lid again, extremely thoughtful. His fingers traced the almost faded symbols that had been carefully inscribed on the trunk lid. They looked religious, but in an odd sort of way, functional too. Like a biohazard symbol.

Debating for a few brief seconds and keeping his fathers orders in mind, Virgil headed for the dorms. It didn't take him long to find Alan's – the twisted and jagged ruin was roped off, tarp tents strung up next to it. Virgil glared at it as if it was defying him personally.

There was nothing else he could do here. He turned to go back to the car, and was halted by the light coming from under the tarp in the yard.

Someone was in there? Curious, Virgil crept onto the site, skirted the hole that had been left by the Mole and sidled up to the tent flap.

A lanky figure was kneeling down next to a box with a room number scrawled across it and sorting through it all the while keeping up a running commentary of mumbles. Virgil recognised it – he did that a lot when he was trying to sort out a problematic machine.

"Houses…small houses…like letterboxes…built for funerals? No…after funerals….where was it…where..? Asia, that's right….something about ghosts…"

He pulled bits and pieces of stuff out of the large box; clothes, books, electronic stuff…they must have cleared out whatever they could from the building. Virgil watched suspiciously, and saw him take a strange looking MP3 player…

Virgil thrust the tent flap aside. "What the _hell_ are you doing with my brother's stuff?" he snapped sharply.

The lanky intruder was on his feet in an instant and dropped into a defensive crouch. "I was just looking for…"

"Get out of here!" Virgil grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him out of the tent, shoving him out into the frigid night. "Who are you, some kind of looter? What do you and that other guy want with Alan?"

Sam held up his hands. "We're trying to find out what happened here."

"You think Alan had something to do with it?" Virgil demanded, enraged.

"I don't know. We're trying to find out," Sam replied.

"And going through his stuff is helping, is it?" Virgil snarled.

Sam stepped away from him. "Do _you_ understand what's going on here? My br…the other guy and I just use…different methods, that's all."

Virgil's glare didn't soften. "If you can't give me even a semi-straight answer, what makes you think I'd trust you with Alan? All this creeping around, secretive bullshit; you're no different from whoever's behind this."

"No," Sam shook his head softly. "We're very different."

Virgil snatched the taller man by his shirtfront. "You're coming with me. You're a trespasser here and you acting damn suspicious for someone who claims to be here to help."

"Look…" Sam wondered how to even begin explaining this, when he was interrupted by the scream.

The dorm was right next to the woods circling the school. The land dipped into a deep gully just past the school, and there were hiking trails through it for the older students to use. The scream came right out of the darkness, pure terror on its edge. As a unit, Virgil and Sam sprinted in the right direction, down the sloping trail. In the weak light still lingering on one horizon, the straight lines of a narrow fenced footbridge spanned the stretch of the deep crevice, in which a stream wound around the bottom. They slowed from the run as they reached it, and Sam swung the torch around on the glittering shallowness below. There was almost nothing to illuminate in the darkness of the shadows cast by the trees and the clouds, but there, right of the middle, something irregular emerged out of the reflections.

It was a sneaker. There was a foot attached. And a leg and, as the light swung over, a whole body face down in the water. Virgil sprinted back the way he'd come, vaulted athletically over the mesh guard fence, and onto the uppermost part of the steep slope. There was a switch backed trail running down the side, but Virgil missed most of it and he slipped and slid in a controlled tumble into the knee deep liquid ice that was the streamlet in winter. Cold water; there was a chance.

He barely registered the fact that Sam had followed him down. He waded toward the still figure and hauled it sharply out of the water. Dragging it by it's navy jacket, Virgil hauled it to the nearest flat bank, assisted by Sam who wrapped his arms around the limp legs and half lifting them out of the stream.

"You know CPR?" Virgil asked sharply.

"Yeah," Sam answered, exposing the boys' chest with one sharp tear.

Virgil tugged out a phone and nodded for Sam to start. The slightly damp cell was still working. He punched in the number.

"This is Virgil Tracy, I'm approximately half a mile east of Wharton's Academy on the walking trail footbridge. I have an adolescent male found face down in the water; possible fall from the bridge. He is unresponsive and we are starting CPR. Possible head injury, possible spine injury and at least one arm is broken. We'll need air rescue with a spinal unit and a respirator pack. Hypothermia a possibility. Will keep the phone on for you to trace."

Sam, between pumps, was impressed. This guy must have had some medic experience.

"You pump, I'll breathe," Virgil said tersely as he tilted the boys head back.

Together they worked feverishly to drag life back into the blue face of Ricky 'Ivan' Ivanonik.

----------------------------------------------


	4. Chapter Three

Disclaimer: Thunderbirds & Supernatural belong to the Anderson's and Eric Kripke respectively. This is non-profit and pure entertainment.

Warnings: Violence, mild bad language, supernatural and adult themes. Be warned.

Authors Note: I know, I _know._ Three freaking months. But I had to get 'Psychics' done too, and then I got distracted with another story that I left when I realised I was putting more time that the 'week' I had given myself, and _then_, finally I started writing this in between some very busy weekends. Sorry. I hope is suits the expectations of everyone who was waiting so patiently.

Please, read and review. I've got some leave time coming, so I'll be able to write more frequently than the weekends soon. Hopefully.

---------------------------------

Chapter Three

---------------------------------

It was the quickest docking in the history of the station. John took the incoming code as the door clamps were opening and the shuttle had locked and depressurised before John had even gotten out of his chair. The entire sequence from approach to lock to open door should have taken fourteen minutes and twenty two seconds. Gordon had pared it down to four.

John sighed, and scribbled 'check and replace any twisted hatch clamps and bayonets' on his note pad as he strode towards the door and the murmur of voices got louder.  
"Next stop, floor five; beepers, books and boredom. We hope you had a pleasant flight on Thunderbirds Space and hope you continue to patronise. Watch your step, and be wary of the local wildlife, which sniffs disapprovingly if papers are left out of order…"

John aimed a punch at Gordon's head. He ducked.

"…and will attack unprovoked at any time."

"Ha ha," John replied sarcastically. "Well done. You managed to turn a gentle ballet of spatial physics into a mosh pit. I'm amazed you didn't knock us out of the sky."

"Faith, brother, faith," Gordon flourished. "I am the master."

"How long did 'the master'" you could _hear_ the inverted commas "Give you to pack?" John turned to two rather dishevelled looking guests. "Thirty seconds?"

Brains grinned. "He was q-q-quite generous. We h-h-h-had s-s-s…a full minute."

"Hey, we made sure this thing was fully stocked when it came back online, relax," Gordon shook a finger as he reached down to grab John's bags. "John's scary when he's hungry. So you should have everything you need with the crates."

John noted the beep and clicks and gentle thumps that indicated the station arms had taken a grip on the cargo holders and had winched them to the cargo bay. "Gordon, shouldn't you be monitoring…"

But Gordon was slinging bags over his back unconcernedly. "Coming?" He headed for the airlock.

John sighed. "Sorry about him," he waved a hand at the airlock entrance. "Olympic athlete, you know. The more stress you put him under, the more focused he gets. He doesn't like being helpless, so he does everything he can not to look that way."

Brains peered around the vista of the Thunderbird Five. Every surface had a polished to a shine. Every panel gleamed, every light glittered. The screens had been fixed to movable arms that he hadn't had time to install the last time he was up here, which was a few hours of concentrated effort. The grating on the floor shone like a new dime. Brains couldn't see the living quarters, but he was willing to make an educated wager that the undersides of the furniture had been polished. He put his considerable brain power to work for a moment on imagining what banging around in this glorified tin can with nothing to do but wait and watch and think was like when a loved one was in danger. He carefully restrained a wry comment that anti-helplessness was a family trait.

"I-It's fine," Brains nodded. He grinned at Fermat, who had wasted no time starting to explore the state-of-the-art systems.

"John! Come on, time's a wasting!" Gordon yelled from the cockpit of Thunderbird Three.

John sighed again. "I figured I wouldn't have time for a tour, so I made a list," He handed the scientist his clipboard. "Everything I could find that needs to be fixed, tweaked, installed, reinstalled, taken out, filed, deleted, repaired and checked. Sorry." It was quite a long list.

Brains took it with good humour. At least they wouldn't be bored.

"The living quarters are only set up for one, but it's a king size bed so bunking together shouldn't be a problem. You have to reset the frequency scanner manually, the automatic program is one of the bugs on the list."

"Johnny!" Gordon yelled from beyond.

"The garbage bays have to be rotated manually as well, about once a week. Don't forget to do that, or trust me, you'll smell it."

"_John_!"

"Feel free to play around with the telescope, but try to keep the star maps in order," John grimaced. "One round of hurricane Gordon up in the observatory was enough for me."

"_John! You've got five seconds, then I'm leaving without you_!"

John grunted. "I'm coming, geez! Okay, that's about it. Anything else, call me. I can help you find what you're looking for, if I can't help you fix it."

Brains smiled. "We'll m-m-manage."

John waved a goodbye to Fermat, and took off down the airlock entrance. He poked his head back through a moment later. "Oh, and don't, _don't_ flush the toilet when the third air reservoir is being used. I don't quite understand the pressure inversion, but…look, let's just say it'll get messy. Trust me."

And then he was gone. It was either that, or getting decapitated by the closing airlock door.

"Lauching se-se-…procedure engaged," Fermat reported proudly from the main chair. "Transmitting co-co-codes."

Gordon's voice crackled over the speakers. "_Yeah, yeah, you got it, kid. You're gonna have a ball up there, I can tell. Geez, Johnny would you stop glaring already, I was only…_"

"_Two minutes. Two bloody minutes, Gordon, that's all I was asking for. I can't believe…"_

The bicker was abruptly cut off, and the two Hackenbackers watched the resplendent Thunderbird Three shoot off toward the glowing blue ob of the Earth.

"Well," Brains said weakly. "At l-l-least if they m-m-manage not to crash, they will be gr-grounded for the duration."

Fermat stared at his father incredulously. "Yeah r-r-right."

----------------------------------------------

Virgil's hands and feet were numb as he walked into the hospital. He squelched as he walked, and he kept a tight grip on the box in his hand.

He felt oddly detached at the moment. Intellectually he was well versed in the after effects of getting up close and personal with mortality. It led to a surreal and desperate rationality, where you take comfort in academic analysis to steer the mind away from the actual problem at hand.

He thought about that boy in the water. Severe falling trauma, his mind inventoried. Five to six minute restriction of breathing due to drowning, borderline for brain death. Twenty three minutes of CPR before medical intervention. Shocky beat after three defibs and no breathing except what the respirator pumped in.

Virgil had been forced to back away as the actual medics arrived with the proper equipment. Whipped by the downdraft of the helicopter and blinded by the halo of the spotlight, Virgil had faced Sam down with a steely glare as the experts went to work. For a moment, they had been allies. But Virgil wasn't sure that status now remained. He didn't trust the mysterious young man any more now than he had before the bridge, even if he respected someone with as quick a reflexes as Sam had shown. Leaving the boy to the experts to extract, Virgil had clawed his way up the damn hill, gave his slightly soggy card to one of the officers on the scene with a quick explanation that he would be at the hospital anyway and made his way back to the car. He hadn't been able to think of a plausible excuse to go with the boy in the chopper. He pushed past a podgy middle aged teacher who was demanding to know what had happened and who had been yelling down at them since before the ambulance arrived. Students and teachers had conglomerated on the site like vultures.

Sam had caught up with him, briefly. "You do good work," he'd commented.

Virgil hadn't responded with more than a weary shrug.

"What do you think happened?" Sam had persisted.

Virgil shrugged again. "Fell off, jumped off, pushed off. Who knows? If he wakes, they'll probably ask."

Sam had nodded. "I need to ask you something."

"Yes?" Virgil had felt a spark of ire, even in his surreal state.

"Your brother," Sam had said. "Has he changed, recently? Have you noticed anything weird happening around him? Or to him?"

Curiosity overtook Virgil's rage. Barely. "What exactly," he'd replied. "Do you mean?"

"Lots of unexpected windfalls, sort of thing," Sam was encouraged. "Like he suddenly has unbelievable good luck. He also might have trouble sleeping, no appetite, that sort of thing."

"Why do you want to know?"

"I'm trying to find out what's happening here. I told you, we do things a different way."

Virgil stopped. Curiosity is a fast sprinter, but rage runs marathons. He had Sam around the throat and against a handy wall before he even registered what he was doing. "_You_!" he hissed. "You think he had something to do with this! How stupid can you get! Do you know the kind of danger people were in, in that building? Alan would never do something so stupid, never! We weren't raised that way! And if he has had any good luck lately it's because he worked hard at it! That's what we do! We may not always get it right, but dammit, being rich doesn't make us evil! If you _ever _say that again…"

Virgil abruptly let Sam go, and forced his anger to fizzle like a bad fuse. He was raw, that's what it was. He was raw.

"I don't know what you're looking for," Virgil had snarled it parting. "But if you are looking at my family then you're looking in the wrong direction."

And then he'd stormed off, stopping only to collect Alan's box from the salvage pile. He didn't want some stranger, anyone, poking through it.

So he'd ended up here, in the reception of the general hospital, clutching his brother's box in his hands. It had most of the Sprout's CD's and his books and the MP3 playing Virgil had helped build for his birthday a couple of years back. He knew from experience how boring hospitals could be.

Virgil slowed as he reached the reception. He'd been intending to walk past it, but ended up at the desk instead. "Excuse me," he said to the lady working on the other side. "There was a boy…a Wharton student, he would have been brought in within the last hour or so. He would have had severe trauma and assisted breathing…."

"Oh yes," the lady gave a wan smile. "He was such a little thing, when they rolled him in."

"Yeah," Virgil breathed. "Do you have a name on him yet?"

"Are you family, dear?"

"No," Virgil replied flatly. "I was with him…I found him. I just wanted to know his name."

"Oh," the lady seemed slightly taken aback. "I see. Well, uh…usually we don't release…" she took a look at the expression on Virgil's face. "Rurik Ivanonik. That was his name. They still have him in surgery. It could go either way."

Virgil absorbed that. "Okay. Thanks."

Well, that was that, then. Nothing more to do, Virgil headed unerringly for the right ward, and happier subjects.

"Virgil! Where have you been?" Jeff demanded as his middle child finally got past security and into the ground floor ward, where Alan was still awake after one of his neuro checks. "Are you all wet? What happened?"

Virgil put the box down on a handy table before going to scan his little brother, taking in the pallid complexion, dark circled and exhausted eyes. "Long story. Hey, Sprout, did they find out if your adult brain is coming in? The baby one has to fall out first, you know."

"You're funny," Alan snorted. But he gratefully accepted the heartfelt hug from his brother. "Eww, you are all wet!"

"Sorry," Virgil grinned tightly, and perched on the bed as Jeff retook his chair. "I went up to your school, got your stuff. I kind of got caught up in a situation when I got there. Some poor kid went off a footbridge on the hiking trail; I was the first on the scene." He shrugged.

"Good grief. What happened?" Jeff blinked, nonplussed.

Virgil shrugged. "He fell, I think. Sixty feet into the water. I pulled him out, did the CPR thing…" Virgil sighed. "It was pretty bad."

His father gripped his shoulder. "Well done. He was lucky someone was there that knew what he was doing."

Virgil looked at his father. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess."

He felt Alan's warm hand weave around one of his own. "Who could that have been? No one goes out of the trails at night. There's no reason for anyone to be out there."

"I dunno, Sprout," Virgil replied. "The said his name was Rurik…Ivan-something," Virgil rubbed his forehead. "Some Russian sounding name…"

Alan froze. "Rurik Ivanonik?" he said weakly. "Ricky Ivanonik? Tiny little kid, like he's eight? You mean _Ivan_?" He sat up abruptly. "Is he okay?" He suddenly winced at the ill advised movement.

"Hey, hey," Jeff reached over to pin him back. "You can't just go moving around like that. It's okay, it's okay."

"But…" Alan looked hurt and bewildered. "Virgil, is he…"

Virgil stared at his younger brother. "You _know_ him? Oh, geez, I'm really sorry, Sprout. Sorry." He squeezed the hand. "Look, he was alive when I left. They said he's in surgery."

"Is it bad?"

Virgil closed his eyes. "Yes. Fairly bad. But I've seen worse, Alan, really."

Alan shook his head and leaned back against his pillows, shocked. "That's…who'd want to hurt Ivan? I mean, he'd never hurt _anyone_, who'd want to hurt him?" he demanded.

"I don't know," Jeff ran a soothing hand across Alan's hair. "Perhaps he just fell."

Alan shook his head. "No, no, I've been on those trails. They got fences on 'em five feet high, there's no way he could have fallen. Who'd…who'd want to hurt Ivan? I mean _Ivan_? He's harmless!"

"Alan," Virgil approached this subject with tense care. "I didn't see anyone else when I got there. Maybe…maybe he…"

"What, you mean…?" Alan shook his head sharply. "No, I knew Ivan, he…he didn't think that way. He wasn't depressed or anything. He speed-read engineering textbooks and collected rubrics cubes and puzzles and…you'd have liked him, Virgil. He tinkered. He…wouldn't." Alan seemed to sag.

Virgil reached over to rub the scrub clad shoulder. "Hey, it's okay. The doctors got to him in plenty of time. He's got a good chance."

"What's happening to my school…"? Alan mumbled, staring at the ceiling blearily.

"Alan," Jeff said softly. "Go to sleep. You need to rest. I'll find out what's happening to Ivan, okay? Try not to worry, it won't help you or him. Okay? All we can do is wait."

Alan gave a mumble as his father ran fingers through his hair again. It didn't take much to get him back to sleep, concussed as he was.

When he was safely reposed, Jeff took the opportunity to put an arm around Virgil's shoulders and giving him a squeeze. "Long day?"

"You have _no idea_ Dad," Virgil rested his head against his fathers shoulder for an instant before getting up and heading back toward the box. "There's something else you should know, Dad. I didn't think Alan should hear, but that guy the Scott was talking about, you know, those two guys that were hanging around? The one I followed was with me when I found Ivan. I was just about to clock him when I heard the scream."

Jeff pursed his lips and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I distinctly remember telling you not to confront them, Virgil."

Virgil winced slightly at the commander voice. "I know, I know, but I trailed him through the grounds to find out what he was up to, and a walked in on him going through Alan's stuff," Virgil opened the box flaps and began disembowelling it. "I wanted to make sure he wasn't stealing anything."

Jeff looked over the things that Virgil had brought with narrowed eyes. Was there anything missing? "He was going through Alan's things." he repeated, turning that around so it would fit in his head.

"_Only_ Alan's things, Dad," Virgil slapped a few more CD's out. "No one else's. And he asked me some weird questions when it was all over. And you _never guess_ what I found in their _trunk_!"

He gave his father a brief but efficient summary of everything he'd found and seen. "…and then he started asking about how lucky Alan was lately."

"Lucky?"

Virgil shrugged. "If he'd been unusually successful, things like that. He also asked if he's had trouble sleeping and eating," Virgil cast his eyes over his brother still form. "I nearly throttled him, Dad, I was so angry. I have no idea what they're thinking, but it centres on Alan. Huh. As if Alan would do something like _that_. On _purpose_."

"True. Now if it had been accidental, it might have been another story," Jeff gave a small smile.

The weak joke made Virgil crack a grin. "Yeah, right. But…" Virgil ran his fingers through his hair agitatedly. "Dad, I can not figure this out! Sam - that's what his name was, Sam – Sam said that he was investigating this whole thing. That he and the other one use different methods. I don't know why two complete strangers would be interested what happens to a boarding school. I don't know what kind of person has an armoury which includes salt and crossbows either. None of this makes any _sense_."

Jeff patted Virgil's back and he leafed through some slightly damp papers, spreading them out to dry. "I don't know either, son. I'm more concerned with getting Alan home. Things will sort themselves out, they usually do. I'd like to see anyone try anything on the island, though." Jeff smiled slightly at the discontented look on his sons face. Virgil hated nothing more than a puzzle he couldn't solve.

"Bulldozer attacks and unexplained explosions and some poor kid falling off a bridge who may not live through the night," Virgil found himself clenching his fists. "And a pair of religious vigilantes in a classic Chevy. What's the connection? Who _are_ these guys?"

-------------------------------------------

"Who _are_ these guys?" Dean muttered to himself. He'd pirated an old copy of _Fortune_ magazine from one of the waiting rooms when he'd spotted the name 'Tracy' printed across it. Cripes, Sam hadn't been kidding with that top-of-the-wave comment.

No family on the entire planet seemed to have so much success in their actions. Medals, commendations, awards, plaques up the wazoo; millions upon _millions_ of dollars; the respect and adulation and obsessions of nations. Not American royalty – American gods.

Dean shook his head. Others saw success; he, on the other hand, sensed the hand of the supernatural – no one was that lucky, unless they knew how to load the dice of fate. Why not? So many others had done it, though Dean had to admit that if they were augmenting, or demon dealing, or power raising, they were doing it on a scale Dean had never seen before. Granted he wasn't exactly an expert on lucky families – neither his life, nor the lives he normally came into contact with offered much of an insight into them. Dean had learned to expect the supernatural over coincidence any day. It was often the case with what he did. If Alan had been augmenting, then Dean knew where he might have learned it.

No one was that lucky…

Sam dropped into the chair next to him, making Dean jump.

"Jesus! A little warning! Why didn't you call?"

Sam's rather grim expression set off an alarm in the back of Dean's mind. Sam grunted and rubbed his forehead. "Sorry. There was a…situation."

"What kind?" Dean asked ominously.

"Not ghosts," Sam shook his head, staring at the floor. "Some kid took a fall off a bridge, I had to keep him breathing until help arrived.

"Is that all?" Dean breathed out.

"_All_?" Sam turned an acid glare on his brother. "Dean, he was ten years old! He might not live through the night! That is not _all_! Or do you only measure success by how many things you _shoot_!"

Okay, maybe that hadn't been the most tactful way to put it, but dammit… "Sam, you gotta stop taking on all the problems of the world, man. Maybe you wouldn't be so depressed and angsty all the time if you stopped believing you can fix every little damn thing that's wrong with everything, you know? Shit happens. There's nothing we can do about that, so we do whatever we can."

"Yeah, we really followed that philosophy growing up," Sam muttered sarcastically, glaring at the floor.

"Oh, Jesus, don't make this about Dad and your terrible childhood _again_, Sam, because, you know, I was there too and it never made me mad. It makes me grateful. I've got the ability to defend myself, to think, to really fight evil, to really make a difference. You've got it to, and for all your do-gooder attitude you certainly sneer at that a lot."

"You had a sanity to go back to, Dean," Sam said quietly. The fight seemed to drain out of him. "You had a home. You understood what was broken. _You had a Dad_. Not a hunter or a soldier or a drill sergeant. _Just_ a Dad. I never had that. I know Dad loved us, but there was a Dad before and a Dad after and you, frankly, got the best of both."

Dean grunted. "Yeah, well, if you at least try to look past all the righteousness and stuff, you might realise you had, have, a Dad too. Maybe he's not perfect, but a lot of white-picket Dads don't do half the things for their kids as Dad did for us. I wish you'd remember that."

"I wish you'd realise that hunting is not the only worthwhile thing," Sam whispered.

Dean ground his teeth, and decided not to make it any more of a fight. Sometimes, he sighed, he really did have to be the grown up one. "Look, you're tired, I'm tired, nothing has happened all day, so let's reconnoitre. Get something to eat."

"Was that a peace offering?" Sam smirked.

"Hey, if you wanna take this outside…" Dean snapped

"We're _going_ outside, aren't we?"

And just like that, the edgy banter that passed for normal conversation clicked back into place.

Sam was uneasy as they left the building. "I dunno, Dean," he said as they shadowed past the guards. "I'm not so sure about this augmentation thing any more."

"Oh come on, man," Dean sidled through the still shattered doorway, completely disregarding the barrier tape. "You read up on the family. I don't think it'd be just Alan. All of them are reaping the benefits of something – I'd take bets they're cutting corners with destiny."

"I went through that kid's stuff," Sam jammed his hands into his pockets as they walked through the parking lot. "I didn't see any alter equipment or weird talismans or books. Nothing, Dean. And I know what I'm looking for. There was nothing _there_. And…you know, I thought when I talked to Alan that he didn't seem the type."

"There's not a _type_," Dean shrugged. "That's like saying you can spot a paedophile."

"Come on, you know what I mean."

Okay, Sam did have a point. You _could_ tell, if you knew what you were looking for. There were two varieties – the smug and the nervous. Both relied heavily on the Secret – being wrapped up in the warm feeling that no one else knows or would ever guess. As plain as day, if you knew what the big Secret was.

And, fair enough, Alan wasn't exhibiting any of the signs…yet. But… "Just because he didn't keep the tools in his room doesn't mean he didn't have them, dude. He could have put it anywhere in the building, no one would have guessed."

Sam shook his head again. "I don't know, Dean. I talked to his brother, and I'm just not seeing it any more."

"What, that Scott guy?" Dean asked incredulously.

"Nah, another one," Sam replied. "Virgil. He helped me with that kid in the water. In fact," Sam rubbed his forehead. "He did most of the work. Look, no Tracy so far has shown any signs of supernatural blowback. Scott and Virgil were both healthy looking, and if they had been augmenting for any length of time they'd be…pretty twitchy by now. Sleepless. Surrounded by weird stuff. And whichever way you pitch it, people who augment are usually pretty selfish. Alan nearly dove off a roof trying to save another student…" Sam frowned as the trains of thought and recollection suddenly hit the same terminus. "Huh…well, anyway," Sam disregarded the thought. "And Virgil fought like hell to save that boy in the water. And if this _is_ some kind of magical backfire, why hasn't anything else been happening to Alan? You've been here most of the day, and he's in a building _full_ of ghosts. If he was attracting supernatural attention, wouldn't something have happened by now?"

"Okay, fine," Dean got out his keys, and unlocked the Impala. "What else could it be then?"

Sam shrugged as he got in, reaching behind to grab the duffel he'd shoved in the back. "I don't know, Dean. All we've got is Alan Tracy, some ghosts, and _this_ thing." He got out the shattered piece of…well, he knew it was the roof of a model, now. "I don't know what the connection is." He tried to think – what was it about house models that had been nagging at him back at Wharton's?

Dean roared out of the parking lot and into the night. "I was reading up while you were out and about." Dean slapped the battered journal down on the dashboard. "Dad wrote some stuff about ghosts catching – you know, not just wiping out, but catching – some hunters use ghosts to tell them what's happening. I bet if we could trap one of the ghosts on that hill, we might find out what's going on."

"_Trapping_ ghosts?" Sam repeated slowly.

"Hey, it works. Dad did it a couple of times, remember? In Wisconsin. It's a pretty easy…" Dean trailed off as he turned his head to his brother.

Sam had gone white. "Ghost traps. _Ghost traps_. That how it was done! Dean," he turned to his brother, his eyes were on fire. "Get back to Wharton's, I think I see the way. I know what he did." Sam face twisted into a snarl. "That bastard. That complete _bastard_!"

--------------------------------------------

Jeff had left Virgil with Alan and had gone to get some coffee.

Some actual coffee. If he kept drinking that cafeteria stuff he would have a hole in his stomach by the end of the week. He waited patiently in line at the all night coffee shop down the street and filled the time talking to one of his sources.

"What do you mean your department isn't handling it, Roger?" Jeff asked, scanning to the muffin tray. He should probably bring back something for his sons to eat. "You're the disaster investigation unit, aren't you?" He listened to the man's response. "What, the construction company? What interest do they have in this? Look, you're the federal authority, and I want to know what the hell happened in that dorm. Yeah, okay. I'll be expecting your call. Yes. Say hi to Janet…yeah, bye."

Jeff switched off his phone. That was…interesting. Since when does a corporation get to investigate an accident of this magnitude and not a federal authority? Or the insurance company? Jeff Tracy, a man who had been up and down the highways and byways of corporate America, smelled a rat.

He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Turning his head slightly, he saw two men at the doors in a booth off to the side, in suits, drinking coffee. Normal. So why were they watching him?

They sculled their coffees and left as soon as Jeff spotted them. Jeff continued in a queue after they had gone, collected his order, and exited. And there, in the first place he looked, right where no one should have expected them, there they were again. Their Sedan was expensive but nondescript. They drove away innocently enough as Jeff's eyes fixed on them.

Jeff clenched his jaw angrily. Definitely a rat.

-------------------------------------

"_What_ do you think you're doing?"

"Well, either I'm preparing Tracy Four for take off or I'm playing a _very elaborate_ game of charades."

"_Gordon_!"

"John!" Gordon grinned and waved him into a seat. "Come on, you know you want to come."

"I notice you waited until Scott passed out from exhaustion before you tried it." John commented dryly. "I should probably feel insulted you don't respect my authority."

"Ahh, you were always the nice one," Gordon nodded over the controls.

John hands went into his vision and yanked out the starting key. "Gordon," he said before the red head could protest. "If we leave this place then the base is unmanned, except for Scott. If we get a call…"

"At the very most this will take about four hours," Gordon snatched the key back. "I checked, John, there's not a nasty weather system or potential disaster popping up anywhere on the radar."

"Right," John took the keys back. "And disasters are completely predictable occurrences. People are relying on us, Gordon."

"Alan relies on us too," Gordon snatched at the keys again, angrily. "And he gets the short end of the stick when he competes with the Thunderbirds for attention. I know we have a responsibility to everyone…out there," Gordon waved a hand to the world. "I'm not saying we don't. I just happen to think that there must be a point where our family is more important than International Rescue, that's all. Jesus Christ John, Alan was attacked in the hospital and we're still thinking of those damn machines first! He's _family_! And he's in trouble."

John gave Gordon a long look. "Dad is going to kill us for this, you know." He sighed.

Gordon grinned. "I'll tell him you tried to wrest control while we were taking off, so it'll be my fault. _Relax_ John. We can go weeks without a single emergency. Dad can try me in the family court when we're all back home."

Gordon punched the door opener and fired the engines. Resigned, John strapped himself in. Dad was never going to buy _that_.  
-------------------------------------

"What are we doing, dude?"

Sam sighed. "We're breaking into the staff quarters, Dean," He replied patiently.

"Can you run this whole thing by me again, please?" Dean fiddled with the window locks with narrowed eyes, while Sam watched his back. The cloisters were silent and empty. "You lost me."

Sam sighed. "Look, it's very simple. The piece we found that your walkman thing…"

"EMF meter."

"Yeah, whatever….EMF gave a reading on was a part of a model of Wharton's dormitory. An exact model – I know because I saw the exact same one in Spivelli's office. Here's the thing; people in Vietnam and Korea and a lot of other South East Asian countries will put little models of their house in front of their actual house – do you know why? They do it to fool spirits into believing that the model house is the actual house, and they even put food in there for them. It's like a spirit trap, Dean. The ghost gets caught in the model house and the actual house is protected, right? It's a superstition still practiced today in Asia – there are companies that actually build little models of cars, houses, boats, all the possessions of dead people for their funerals."

"So why do we think Spit Valve is trapping ghosts? And where did you pick up this stuff, anyway?" Dean tweaked the window latch with his picks, mindful of alarm systems.

"Anthro 101 at Stanford," Sam replied curtly. "We did a section on international superstitions."

"_You_ did anthropology?"

"You have to have a humanities credit," Sam replied waspishly. "Are you going to keep interrupting or do you want to hear this?"

"Okay, okay. You make a little house and shove a Hershey bar inside and vi-ola, instant spirit trap. Anyone can do it. And with all the ghosts being stirred up on that hill, there was actually a good chance that it would work, I get it. But why Spit Valve? I mean, the guy's a music teacher, for crying out loud. Where would he have learned this stuff?"

Sam pursed his lips. "I think it might have been by accident. One of the students built the model and kept food in it. Maybe he was Vietnamese, there are lots of international students here. Spivelli _showed_ it to me, he told me it was attracting rats so he confiscated it. Rats, scratching…"

"Violent spirit," Dean finished, finally working the latch open with a quiet click. Sam swung the torch back and forth around the courtyard, just to be sure. Dean sat back before he got the window open. "Okay, I think I see where you're going. Spit Valve gets the model, and suddenly he realises, oh shit, there really _is_ a ghost in it. An adolescent, angry, violent ghost who just got woken up by a mass of trucks rolling over it's grave. And so he…what?"

Sam shrugged. "Well, he obviously built some more spirit traps. The ghosts must be thick on that hill, so he must have got more. And when the houses are opened up or broken, out the spirit comes."

"Pissed and ready for action," Dean slid the window open. "So why set them on his own school."

Sam shrugged. "Maybe he lost control. Or maybe it's just because he hates Alan, and he's trying to get rid of him. This guy has got serious issues. He'd be a great teacher if he didn't have any students."

"You're sure about this?" Dean asked as he climbed in.

"It's his office. See? He hangs his awards on the window behind his desk to everyone can see them. Prick."

"Not the office, you moron," Dean retorted. "Spit Valve. This theory seems a little flimsy. The models make sense but that guy? Okay, he's an asshole, but frankly he doesn't strike me as having the balls to corral spirits. You've gotta have a least a little backbone to manage it."

"It was Ivan," Sam punched the sill angrily before climbing through. "I think he knew something. I talked to him, the poor kid was totally blindsided by what happened. Maybe he knew, or suspected, or something. He showed me where the teachers quarter was and I left him in the reception – Spivelli must have saw him before I talked to him, he came in that way. Maybe Ivan saw something at the hospital before the attack, we passed a Wharton bus as we came in, remember? Maybe he went to talk to Spivelli when he went there with me. And Spivelli was there, on the bridge, when we took Ivan out of the water. It didn't occur to me until afterward, but he was one of the first ones there. He was there awfully quickly for an unfit fifty year old."

Dean grunted and gave his brother a hand in. "So, the kid sees something, or knows something, and needs to be gotten out of the way." Dean shook his head. "I dunno, dude. That still takes spine, and Spit Valve doesn't have it."

Sam shrugged. "Let's find out, shall we?"

They went toward the wall of confiscation, and found the perfect little model. Dean got out the EMF, and gave it a reading.

"Nothing," Dean looked at the one little light flickering feebly.

"Hmmm," Sam picked up the little house, peering inside the little plastic windows. "No food. Maybe it's just not there anymore. But," he tapped the one red light. "Something was."

Dean swung the machine around the office. "There's nothing in here, man. If he had any…full ghost traps in here, the EMF would be screaming."

"Well, _I_ wouldn't keep them in my office," Sam pointed out.

Dean rubbed an eyebrow. "If you want to trap anything, you set the traps where the prey is."

Sam cocked his head. "Cemetery."

"Cemetery."

--------------------------------------------------------

"This is insane," Dean muttered over the screams of the EMF. "There's too many signals."

Sam grimaced. The air was especially chilly up here, and Sam felt the tingling itch over his skin the experienced hunters learned to watch for. Anyone could sense ghosts if they really paid attention. He didn't need to be a hunter to know he was currently hip deep in them. Not even ghosts, exactly. Memories. Tiny pieces of something very complex left hanging in the air and in the ground.

How could those guys stand to work up here?

Dean looked around the wreck and ruin of structures. "I'm not seeing any models."

"Lets look around, they probably wouldn't have been in plain sight."

Dean grunted and looked around dismally. Spending the night to an arctic hill picking through the ruin of a construction site was not his idea of a pleasant midnight. Spending it with his little brother who never seemed to notice how edgy he got in the presence of spirits was no incentive. His wandering eyes rolled down the hill where he saw…"Are those lights?"

"What?" Sam called from the other side.

"Someone's down at the dorm," Dean sidled down, shadowing along silently on the slope through the shaky wreckage. Faint, moving torchlight moved in a constellation at the outside of the destroyed building.

There was quiet a few people there. "Workers?" Sam suggested, sliding down next to his brother.

"At midnight?" Dean raised an eyebrow. "Kids?"

The brothers looked at one another. Dean shrugged. "Lets go. If they're workers then they can answer questions. If they're kids, we can at least stop them from being stupid."

They rose and headed off towards the weaving torch lights, listening to the din noises of arguments floating up. It sounded like a real shouting match, but the words didn't carry over the wind.

There was a roar behind them. Dean spun around, half expecting another bulldozer, but the roar was from the fleet of cars that were pulling up to the site from the back road. Their headlights turned the site into a jutting landscape of silhouettes and shadows and brilliant white lights. The two Winchester stood out like flags.

"Hey! You!" somebody yelled down.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw the torch lights scatter like dust motes. Out of the front of his eye Dean saw a very familiar shape.  
"Gun!" He tackled Sam sideways as it came out, the bullet whizzed overhead.

"Er…run?" Sam suggested from the ground.

"Freakin' genius, Sam," Dean replied, and launched upwards. "Split up."

Sam was off from the starters blocks, going the other way. He saw Dean circling the site – he was probably heading for his car. Sam headed for the dorm, and past them the woods. Behind him, there was the bang and crash of people fighting their way through the wreckage and what remained of the standing structure.

Cursing soundly, Sam zigzagged expertly through the debris and down to the open yard before the dorm. There were yells behind him, but quite frankly his gangly legs were very, very useful for high speeds.

_Probably a self fulfilling prophecy_, Sam thought ironically while rode of the surge of adrenaline all the way to the dorm and through the hole in Alan's room. They hadn't followed him. There were no running footsteps, or quiet creeping noises. There was no sense of being followed and by now Sam had those instincts honed to a blade edge.

There probably would be soon, though. There were a lot of cars, and a lot of people on that hill and they were not police, because the really nice thing about police is that they have to tell you so _before_ they shoot.

Sam's breathing was controlled and unlaboured, his steps certain, his movement fluid. Chased or chasing, he was always a hunter, and mere humans ranked very low on the threat scale. He headed further into the dorm, carefully, moving by night vision and touch alone. He had to get out, get back to his brother. His brother was too fond of picking fights, which was a strange thing for _Sam_ to say, the family rebel.

The he heard it.

_Voices_…

Whispers echoes through the swiss cheesed halls and broken floors, echoing in odd directions and bouncing up through the sagging ceilings. They sounded young, and angry. Ghosts.

Had Spit Valve kept the ghost traps here? Yes, maybe. He was a total bastard if he was turning on his own students – a pompous, narrow, arrogant coward with little claim to genius which his discipline often demanded. Yes – mediocrity was a big reason to sell your soul. And if he was willing to attack Alan then keeping potentially deadly trapped ghosts in a student dorm wouldn't blip on his conscience radar.

The feeling was there again, like sunlight on the skin. _Yes_ they were here. Sam put less stock in being psychic than Dean did, which was in negative amounts, but there were some things he could not deny. They were happening inside his own _head_.

He felt them. Knocking at the walls, rattling the bars of their cages, angry, cold and hungry – although hunger wasn't quite the word for it. It was more a desperate, nameless, directionless need, hunger and thirst and coldness and anger all rolled together to form something else. Poltergeists.

Sam followed the feeling as far as he dared. The feelings gave him a line of direction to follow, but that didn't mean he could get there. The floor creaked and rattled in the cold wind. Sam followed the voices past the rooms and toward the sink hole through the middle. As Sam reached it he turned his head back and forth, trying to pick up the voices again. They stopped as he got nearer.

"Hello?" Sam whispered into the black abyss next to his feet.

He felt them come up behind him and spun instinctively punch at the ready. He should have hit nothing but coldness, ghosts didn't respond to fists. It was a pure reflex that drove his hand, and it was hard to say who was more shocked – Sam or his assailant, who caught a blow on the side of the neck even as Sam tried to stop the momentum of the blow. Sam felt it connect, and froze for that one critical second as he watched his victim go over like a tree, enough time for him not to notice the blow coming up to slam his head. Now the blackness was complete.

---------------------------------------

Dean headed towards the car, and was fairly sure he wouldn't make it there. He'd have to get past the ranks of cars to get there, and he doubted whether they would just let him through. He dove into the standing structure that was left, all wood frames and plastic sheets, like the ghost of a building. He might be able to skirt them long enough to get a clear run.

He felt them closing in – there were shouts of orders, but they were all working at cross purposes, so on the plus side, they were disorganised. On the minus, they weren't cops – cops had procedures for this – and they probably didn't care about Dean's right to stay alive. When he felt them enter the framework from the other side, he didn't hesitate. The plank of wood was in his hands before he even thought about it and he swung it into the first face as they came around the wall of plastic sheets. As the man went down, Dean changed the direction, and swung it back towards the other guy who ducked around it.

Dean was ready for that, though, one hand released the plank and gripped the front of the man's heavy jacket, dragging him in an imbalanced circle into a wooden stanchion, following through with a swift punch to the head. He was still sagging when Dean leapt over him, wooden club still in hand, sprinting for the outside. He was at the line of cars as he rounded a stand of portable toilets, and nearly ran into a pack of them, who were hauling stuff out a van. Skidding as he tried to correct his direction on the frozen mud, one of his akimbo arms was grabbed by a man of biker proportions, who received a swift uppercut for his trouble.

Struggling to get his footing, his couldn't maintain his balance as someone tackled him into the mud. Dean's elbow came up to his whoever it was in the chest, and he rolled on his back to get the guy off him. He kicked out with his legs instinctively to keep any approaching enemy away, and by the sound of things he'd landed the kick with anatomical precision.

Unfortunately, he couldn't block the kick that landed on his face, leaving his stunned on the ground. He was flipped over and restrained. Past the buzzing in his ears, he heard someone yelling.

"…idiot! Who told you to fire? Now what are we supposed to do with him? Turn him over to the police? Then what are _we_ supposed to say about being here, jackass!...Okay, okay. Get him in the van, I'll make the call…"

Dean sighed, trying to reorganise his scattered brain cells. This just wasn't his night.

---------------------------------------

It was two in the morning when they finally reached the hospital, and they'd bickered most of the way for lack of anything else to do. They both knew they were in for it as soon as Dad saw them. So they were, understandably, relieved, when they realised that Jeff Tracy had left the building. They didn't find this out right away, however.

"Look, when you're running out of the house to see a critically injured family member, you don't always stop to bring birth certificates and signed references, okay?" Gordon said furiously. "I'm Gordon Tracy! This is John Tracy! We're brothers to the poor fool in there – not the tall middle aged one, the short fourteen year old one. The middle aged one is our Dad."

"No access without authorisation," the guard said stubbornly. "Now get lost."

"Officer," John replied, frustrated. "I haven't slept for two days and I've just spent three hours in the company of my erstwhile but highly annoying compatriot here whose idea of handling stress is to spread the insanity around. I will not cost you anything to go in there and verify for us, okay?"

The guard found himself in the crosshairs of a double Tracy glare.

"Gordon? John?" Virgil's head was sticking out of a doorway some way down the hall. "What are you…let them through, they're okay," he waved to the guard who grudgingly moved aside. "Geez what are the two of you…"

"First things first, Virg'," Gordon craned his head past his brother, and shuffled past him as politely as was possible.

"Hey wait, hold on," Virgil muttered as he went past. "John, mind filling me in here? How did you get down?"

"The usual way," John grinned. "Do you know Gordon sings 'bottles of beer' when he flies? I'm amazed Dad hasn't throttled him." He was looking past his brother to where Gordon was fussing over Alan on the bed, squeezing his hand and playing with his hair with a tight, tight smile on his face.

"Gords," Virgil said in warning, not turning around. "Wake him and you're dead. He needs rest. So, are you seriously telling me you left the base unmanned?" He asked John.

"Well, Scott's there," John pointed out. "He's a one man mission."

"Riiight, Dad's really going to see it that way."

"You expected me to win an argument with _Gordon_? Brother, I'm flattered and insulted," John sighed.

Virgil chuckled. "Just as well he's out for coffee, then. Dad, I mean."

John settled into the chair next to the bed before Gordon could take it. He ran a hand over Alan's hair softly. "He looks so tired."

"Yeah, I thought that too," Virgil agreed, frowning. "Dad noticed too. And I'm pretty sure he wasn't that skinny when he left the island."

"Oh, you know Alan," Gordon perched on the bed instead. "He probably has a big project going. You know how he gets when something catches his interest. He tends to think food and sleep are optional extras."

"He's definitely a Tracy," John smiled. He looked at the other two. "You two better go and find Dad."

"What?" Gordon protested. "Why us?"

"Because a) I don't know about you, but I could use a coffee and Dad can buy a few extra; b) it was your idea to come here and I just tried to wrest the keys from you, and if Dad starts shouting at you then it'd probably be best if he didn't do it here and c) I'm the oldest present and because I say so," John replied, settling himself in. "Stop me if I'm wrong on any one of the three."

Gordon shot him a look. "You've been practising this, haven't you?"

"It was either that or listen to you sing," John grinned. "Did I rush it? I thought I rushed it."

"No, no, it was good," Virgil took his cue. "The oldest thing was harsh, you come off like a tyrant. Come on Gordon," he took the red head by the shoulder. "You might win arguments on points, but that's only because John's gearing up for the TKO. Come on."

Gordon muttered to himself rebelliously as he was steered out. "He better be here when we get back."

"He'll be here. Go and face the music before Dad's had his coffee, you might just get away with it."

Muttermuttermutter…Gordon closed the door.

John grinned as their voices filtered through the door.

"_You had to loan him a copy of _Oceans Eleven_ didn't you_?"

"_What loan? He raids the library every month_ _when he gets back._"

Well, what did they expect? There was really nothing to do up there except monitor and the daily chores which took all of an hour. They should be glad they got them back.

"Well, it's just you and me Sprout," John said to the prone figure on the bed. Alan was deeply asleep, his face was mottled with bruises and he was strapped in bandages too. John didn't like that. It was unnatural for Alan to be still. He was the most _awake_ person John had ever known.

John rubbed the limp hand between his own and looked around the room to distract himself. There was a battered looking box sitting on the instrument bench on the side. Sighing to himself but unable to resist, John leaned down to peck Alan's forehead. "Be right back, Sprout."

There were water damaged papers all around the box, although they had dried by now. John gathered them up fastidiously and checked the rest of the stuff. There were more books in there than he expected. He looked across the slightly faded bits and pieces in his hands.

A First Aid certificate? Alan had a First Aid certificate? John scanned it – it was an advanced level certificate run by Tactical Medics, the people who often train law enforcement and similar high risk professionals, orienteerers and wilderness survivalists…and rescue organisations. They had all gone, hadn't they? This was a more junior course probably taken by cadets, babysitters and scouts. But Tactical Medics was a pretty tough course, and would have taken months of hard work and training. Most of the rest of the papers were schedules – study groups, track meets, courses, volunteer rosters as the local Y, solar car races, councillor reviews….

Councillor reviews?

John scanned that page again, and his jaw dropped. Alan was in the ACP's?

No _way_! That was so cool!

That explained the reviews – the school board had become tired of dealing with the fallout from burn outs. John remembered that from back when he had been in the ACP.

No _wonder_ he was so tired. He had his finger in every pie. He was spread thinner than rain in the Sahara. If he hadn't nearly been run over by a bulldozer he probably would've have ended up collapsing in a few weeks.  
John's stomach sank as he looked over the sad and lonely evidence of desperate achievement before him. The bulldozer had made him angry and territorial, but this was truly frightening. Well, he thought quietly. He'd suspected. And now he knew.

He'd felt it when he heard Alan's tiny little voice talk to him five thousand something miles down. So worried that he'd done something wrong again. More frightened of disappointing Dad and the rest of them than he was about being in danger of dying.

_Post traumatic stress. _To overcompensate to this level, his confidence must have dropped like a stone. Dad had talked about Alan a lot lately, after he called home (once a week, minimum). Maybe he'd suspected something was wrong. Right now he'd probably be too glad Alan was alive to dwell on anything else.

John carefully put the papers back and closed the box. He went back to Alan and quietly took his hand.

"You gotta learn to start talking to us, Alan," he massaged the lax fingers agitatedly.

Whether or not he meant to do it, Alan's eyes slid opened blearily. "Dad?" he croaked at the ceiling.

"Alan?"

"John?" Alan's eyes turned and his whole face lit up. "John! You came down! Did Fermat go absolutely nuts?"

John reached over to accept the hug before Alan tried sitting up. "Honestly Alan, I think we're going to have to unbolt my chair and strap it into Three to get him down again."

Alan chuckled. "Get ready. He'll have re-done your entire system before he leaves. Where's Dad?"

"Coffee run," John answered. "Virgil and Gordon have gone down to place their orders."

"Gordon's here too?" Alan gasped. "Wait, who's at home?"

John shrugged. "Just Scott and all the other permanent residents."

"But what about In…the family business," Alan was horrified.

"Nice save," John smirked. "Relax, Alan. You're coming home tomo…today, and we'll be back before it makes a big difference if we get a call. No problem. It's okay."

"Does Dad know?" Alan said weakly. _International Rescue has closed down…for me!_

"Uh…he will soon," John smiled uneasily. "Relax, _you_ won't be in any trouble. Especially not when he finds out you're running in the ACP. That is terrific, Sprout. You're going to be a shoe-in into any college you like. That's so cool!"

Alan was shocked. "How did you…"

"I had to dry out your papers, I might have caught a word or two," John said, unapologetically.

"John! It was meant to be a surprise!"

"I was surprised. Besides, no one else noticed, or Dad would be calling everyone in his address book to brag, so it's still kind of a surprise," John offered. "I'm so proud of you Sprout, that takes a lot or smarts and a lot of stamina."

"Oh. Well. Thanks," Alan replied. He still seemed disgruntled. "You still spoiled to the surprise."

John grinned. Then he sobered slightly. "Alan…" he wondered how to start this conversation, but Alan might feel better talking just to him now than when the rest of them were in the room. John knew how hard it was for any Tracy to admit weakness, fear or uncertainty. It just wasn't in their nature to give in to it. "Alan, is their any reason you joined the ACP's? In particular?"

Alan looked at John oddly. And then he looked down at his hands. "I don't know. I guess when Dad gave me the badge, I started thinking about all the stuff you guys do when you, you know, _go out_. I mean I really started thinking about all the things I should probably _know_ before I go out there. Not just how to fly. The other stuff. Because, you know, we can't really get it wrong, right? So I started really studying all this stuff and it wasn't as hard as I thought it would be, and the councillor said that maybe I should, you know, try the ACP's because my grades went up so high, and you know," Alan shrugged sheepishly. "Anything that gets you out of high school earlier is a good, right?"

"True," John grinned. "Is the badge why you took the medics course?"

"I thought it would help."

"Pretty intense course," John pointed out noncommittally. "And you're volunteering too."

"So?" Alan challenged, suddenly defensive. "What's the problem? I'm just trying to grow up like everybody keeps telling me too! I'm just trying to do everything I can to be good at what I do. Or is everyone going to have a problem with that too?"

"Alan, Alan," John grabbed him by the shoulders. "I'm not criticising you! Honest! I'm just...I'm worried. You're working your fingers to the bone. You're…look, I've got no problem with you working hard and achieving and really pushing yourself to get to your peak, there's nothing wrong with that. But, you know, you don't have to work yourself to death just to prove yourself or be good at your job."

Alan stared at him.

John nodded in acquiescence. "Okay, fine, maybe our family isn't chock full of good examples of that but…Alan, you're burning out. I can _see_ it happening. You're fourteen, Alan. We are not expecting you to be an expert the minute you take the badge. We're all still learning, all of us. Why…why are you so sure you're going to screw up if you don't know everything?"

"I don't think that," Alan mumbled.

"Yeah, you do."

"Oh, so you're telling me what to think now?" Alan snapped.

"Alan!" John grabbed him around the head. "Come on, I grew up with you. Do you think we wouldn't notice?"

Alan tried to back out of the grip, but found there was nowhere to go. "I just…I want to be good at it John. That badge…it has to mean more than just being a Tracy. It has to. If I'm not good at it then there's no point in me having it. And it's all I ever wanted so…"

John let out a breath. "Is _that_ it? Alan, you _are_ good at it! Very good. It has nothing to do with being a Tracy. We all had to prove ourselves to Dad, and believe me he didn't expect us to be good, he expected us to be _better_ than everyone else. Gordon was an aquanaut who had to prove he could fly a rocket, for crying out loud. And Fermat and Tin Tin got their badges too, so…"

"They earned them."

"And you didn't?"

"Not like they did," Alan shook his head. "Tin Tin took a thirty foot drop into the water. Fermat had to learn to pilot in a single day. I didn't do the kind of stuff they did."

"They were looking to _you_ for all the ideas, Alan. They relied on you." Which was a lot of pressure, John added in his head. "Dad didn't give you that badge because you were lucky, or because of a fluke, or because you would be left out if he didn't. Dad doesn't do that, he doesn't think that way. He thought you earned it. _We_ thought you earned it, because he asked us too."

"Oh."

"Yeah, _oh_," John smiled gently. "You gotta stop thinking that you don't measure up just because you haven't you know, flown F18's or joined the WASP or whatever. Of course we're ahead of you, we've had more time to do all this stuff in. You'll catch up. You're a lot closer than you think. And you've got to stop…" John added softly. "You've got to stop worrying about the Hood. He's gone. He's not coming back."

Alan looked at him, and the look on his face made John want to cry. He rubbed Alan's temples with his thumbs. "You think I don't know? I spent every _single_ night when Five came back online cleaning. Changing switchboards. Doing every single fiddly job I could thing off. I even started remapping the stars a constellation at a time. I didn't want to think about where I was. I didn't want to…face everything. I was more frightened for that first week than I have ever been."

"You called a lot," Alan remembered, almost surprised that he hadn't realised before.

"Yeah," John nodded. "Talking…helped. It _does_ help, you know. Dad even has a therapist on the payroll, so to speak. One thing you learn being in this business is that you can't keep stuff all bottled in. We see nasty stuff, Alan. Lots of nasty stuff. Why do you think we talk about every mission we've been on _ad nauseum_? We break it down into…stuff we can manage. We all do it. You have to learn too. Otherwise you'll end up sick and skinny," he poked Alan ribs playfully. "And so tired you can't see straight. And then you _will_ make mistakes. Don't worry."

Alan sighed. "Is this part where you tell me I'll make a great Thunderbird one day?"

"No," John chuckled. "You _are_ a great Thunderbird. Today. It's just learning to be a mere mortal you're having problems with. Don't worry," he wrapped an arm around his little brother companionably. "You're in good company there."

"We should probably call it the Tracy syndrome," Alan laughed softly resting his head on John's shoulder.

"Definitely."

There was a knock at the door. Alan brightened up. "Dad's back."

John blinked. "No. He'd just storm in."

John got up and went to the door. Probably the doctor, he surmised. Neuro checks and whatnot.

When he opened the door, he had just enough time to be surprised before the blow came, knocking him down and into the blackness.

-----------------------------------------------

At the precise moment of this brotherly talk, their father was actually being kidnapped.

_I can't believe this. This is insane_, Jeff thought, more irritated than afraid. They had pulled up in two cars and a van, a perfect trifecta around his rented car, pulling expertly in just as he bent to get the coffee carton out.

"Mr Tracy," one man said, masked and anonymous. "Our boss would like to talk to you."

Jeff's eyes scanned the surrounding. Three drivers, two passengers placed in a rough circle. No guns, though that could change. He could probably manage two. Maybe three if they were slow on the uptake. It had been a while since he'd been in a real proper brawl, though.

"About what?" Jeff asked evenly. "You'll forgive me for being slightly sceptical."

"Wharton's," the man said flatly. "Please. We do not wish to hurt you, but you will come with us now."

"You don't want to kill me," Jeff said. "And I'm guessing you don't want a lot of fuss and noise. So I'll tell you what." He extended an arm, holding the keys. "I'll walk away from here and not set off the alarm, and your boss can make an appointment like everybody else."

He watched them grow tenser under this impossible situation. One man reached for his gun. Gingerly, Jeff noticed.

"Please, Mr Tracy."

Jeff prepared to risk walking for the entrance to see how far they'd take it, and then the situation changed.

"_Dad!_" Virgil's voice echoed across the lot. "Dad! Hang on!"

"Dad!" A second voice. What was Gordon going here? He heard them running closer, but they were far away.

The hand with the gun wavered uncertainly.

"I'll go with you quietly if you leave them alone," Jeff offered swiftly.

The man nodded. "Deal."

Hands grabbed him, and hauled him into the van, cutting off the sight of his sons as they sprinted forward, yelling and swearing.

The van started, throwing Jeff against the panelling as they swerved away and shot into the night.

And he always riled against his sons for getting into trouble…

-------------------------------


	5. Chapter Four

Disclaimer: Thunderbirds & Supernatural are not owned by the author of this free love, free words fic. It is owned by, oh, many people who aren't me.

Warnings: Violence, supernatural themes, intense situations, light bad language

Authors Notes: Finally! But let's be fair, I wasn't sure where this was going when I started. I do enjoy writing it though.

Please read, and review and relax and enjoy!

------------------------------------------

Chapter Four

------------------------------------------

Scott opened his eyes blearily. Why was it, he mused as he staggered up, that whenever he had a particularly bad day he had an innate ability to wake up with a hangover _without_ the only redeemable aspect of the enjoyment of drinking the night before? It was probably a gift, he thought sourly.

He had apparently collapsed on John's bed – that's right, he'd come in here to talk to him and eventually the thirty-six hour working day he'd had caught up with him. John had covered him up and left him to sleep it off, because there was really nothing unusual about this.

He tried to do stock take as he wove into the bathroom, trying to unglue his eyes enough to see straight and screw his head on right past the crick in it. He looked in the mirror in the en-suite, and grimaced. Okay. Alan; in hospital, after nearly dying _twice_ (that was better than caffeine). John; came down from the stars above, so all the family's here (that was good). Dad; off site. Virgil; off site. Both watching over Alan (that was bad, sort of. Scott would prefer to either be there or have them all there here. Or something). IR status; skeleton crew, but ready (he could live with that, mostly). He had a hazy memory of checking in with the Hackenbacker's when he got in, and, well, they were technicians surrounded by all sorts of interesting little problems to fix. Must be heaven in a tin can.

And him? Aches; numerous, bruises; royal purple with yellow edging, brain; unfortunately sober, running 44 capacity, headache; level five and pounding, general presentation; truly surprised the mirror hadn't cracked when he looked at it. Hmmm. Shave, shower, coffee, food, coffee, coffee, coffee. Sounds like a plan.

He had gotten as far as step three (Ohana was a saint for knowing when to put on the coffee maker) when his brain actually woke up enough to action the nagging sense that something was missing.

Scott looked around. The living quarters were empty and neat, the sleeping quarters were silent. About two brothers. _That_ was what was missing.

There was no need to jump to any conclusions, Scott thought to himself as he strode through the manor to check. It may be an island, but there was still plenty of space to get lost in.

The majority of his brain cells took this argument and ran it across the memory cells to look for precedent. Scott stopped looking, and headed for the control centre.  
_The hell they are._

It didn't take him long to find the missing plane in the hanger. He slammed a fist down on the consol, nearly firing Thunderbird One in the process. How could they? How _dare_ they? He cared for Alan too, he'd helped raise him, looked out for him, cared for him, made sure someone was taking an interest in what he did even when four others before him had done the same things and Dad was too busy and spread too thin to be there. He probably cared a hell of a lot more than any of them, but he wasn't allowed to forget his responsibilities, and neither were they!

He was slightly mollified by the idea that no punishment he could inflict would ever come close to Dad's. But still! This…well, it stung in its own way. They always seemed to think that Scott cared more for the duty than for the family. His family _was_ his duty, which is why he always set out to give them a stable, honest example. _That_ was something they could use.

Enough, Scott told himself grimly. We have too much to deal with already, this one can wait. In the meantime, he could check in with Dad and find out how Alan was doing and at least find out if the others hadn't ditched somewhere in their flight.

Just as he reached for the phone, it started to ring….

-----------------------------------------------

Virgil didn't halt his stride but gave Gordon a sharp push off course as he streamed past. "Get the car!" There was a tinkling, silvery flash in the air as Virgil threw the keys back over his shoulder. Gordon snatched them from the air expertly without missing a stride, and pivoted back towards the parking lot. Virgil sped up and brought forth extra reserves as the dark van and its sedan convoy hit the street and turned towards the town centre. Virgil kept up a blinding pace, glaring hard at the vehicles as they passed under the street lamps, trying to catch some plate numbers. The cars were outdistancing him almost from the beginning, however, and no matter how fit he was he could not outrun a car, especially when they were quickly blasting past the speed limit. He doggedly followed the diminishing lights into the darkness anyway. Nothing would compel him to give up when his own father's life was at stake. _Nothing_.

Gordon cursed soundly as he was forced to stop and make out the plate number tagged on the key chain. Like he knew what kind of car they had borrowed from the company pool! A few precious seconds were wasted figuring it out, but it was easy enough to find in the mostly empty lot. Unlocking and wrenching the door open, Gordon revved the engine and was moving out of the parking bay before the door had even closed behind him. He tore across lines of empty spaces, turning sharply and heading for a ramp out onto the street. It turned out to be an entry ramp – Gordon knew this because as he flew into it he was blinded by headlights coming the other way. Slamming on the brakes, Gordon braced and prayed that whoever it was either had excellent brakes or better reflexes.

It turned out they did. There was a slight squeal of inertia and tyres, but not even a slight bump followed. Gordon blinked, still in the glare of headlights on full.

"'ey now, you should be watchin' where you're goin' old son!" Yelled a voice out of the drivers side window.

Gordon blinked again. "_Parker_?"

"Master Gordon, 's'at you?" the familiar cockney voice came back in a much more civil tone.

Gordon got out of the car. Out of the direct beam of the headlights there was a definite sense of…pink.

"Gordon my dear," Lady Penelope's amused voice floated out of the back as she leaned her head out of the open back window. "I thought you boys had outgrown drag racing."

"No, we just upgraded the equipment," Gordon replied shortly. "I need you to follow me! Dad was just pulled inside a van by a bunch of strangers. Virgil just went after them on foot. We think one of them was armed."

"Parker, turn us around," Lady Penelope ordered crisply. "Do you have your phone?"

Gordon nodded, and dove back into the car. There was a moment of complicated manoeuvring, and then the two cars were roaring out of the parking lot and down the streets.

Gordon picked up his phone of the first ring. "I saw Virgil heading this way when I went back to get the car."

"_Do you have any idea who took your father, Gordon?_"

Gordon overtook another car on the road and pushed the accelerator harder scanning the road for any sign of Virgil. "No. Two unmarked sedans, silver, one unmarked van, either black or very dark. No side windows. The men who took him were dressed in some sort of dark uniform. Not cops. One looked to be armed; I was a little far away but it looked like a 9mm of some description. We thought he was _talking_ to them!" Gordon pounded the dash board with the heel of one hand in anger and shame. It had taken precious time for Virgil or Gordon to spot the gun, to realise the danger. _I should have been quicker. I should have run faster_.

"_There's no time for recriminations, young man_," the Lady's tone was all business. "_Can you think of anyone who would want to take him?_"

Gordon flicked his eyes over the street, forcing himself to slow just a little so that he didn't miss any critical details. "No! I mean, yes, he's a billionaire, but he almost never comes off the island these days. Even if he does have enemies that would go that far, and I don't think he does, who would even know he was here?"

There, down a side street, Gordon just caught a flash of moving white in one of the streetlights. Virgil's white sneakers glowed briefly as he passed under each pool of light. Careering around and nearly climbing the kerb, Gordon took the street and headed for his brother while FAB 1's lights shone right in his rear view.

He hit the window controls. "Virgil!"

Virgil's head came around even though he didn't stop running. Gordon slowed enough to come along side him and leaned over the release the passenger door. Virgil clambered in without even having the car stop. "Keep going," he panted, breathing hard. The middle Tracy ran a hand across his sweating face. "Their tail lights were going in a straight line when I last saw them." Gordon wordlessly handed him the phone and let him talk to Lady Penelope as he gained speed again.

"Hello?"

"_Virgil darling, how far down the street do you think they went before you lost track?_"

"Lady P? About half a mile, I think," Virgil replied.

Gordon drove straight, and they kept their eyes peeled, but after a few minutes of scanning and back tracking, they were forced to stop and concede defeat; temporarily at least. The kidnappers had too far for a head start for pursuit.

The Tracy's joined Lady Penelope in her longer car for a face-to-face conference.

"We weren't expecting you, Lady Penelope," Virgil said by way of greeting, carefully pushing aside a huge, pink ribbon bedecked get-well basket that had been intended for Alan.

"Well really," Lady Penelope huffed. "I am certainly not too busy to come over when one of you boys in seriously injured. I _would_ have been here sooner, if your father had bothered to call. Now then," she settled down to work. "Do you remember anything that might be useful?"

Gordon shook his head. "No, just what I said. I didn't see any faces, only a gun and three vehicles."

"I think maybe I caught some of the license plate off one of the sedan's," Virgil added thoughtfully. "XJ…something. They were new models, maybe last years. They looked kind of executive…the kind of models people use for company cars."

"Well, that's a start. Parker?" Lady Penelope called up front to the butler, who had been tactfully listening.

"Yes milady?"

"Start up the GPS Sen-Com scour system, and bring up the satellite feed for this area along with At-map locator grid."

"Yes milady."

"You have access to communication satellites, Lady?" Virgil asked, startled.

"Well," Lady Penelope gave a brief smile. "What they don't know won't hurt them, that's the main thing. Now this is what we are going to do – while Parker actually gets in to the systems, we are going to call the police."

"Lady, they'll want statements and missing persons reports, and a whole mountain of forms. It'll be an enormous waste of time!" Gordon negated in a frustrated voice. "We don't have it, Dad doesn't have it."

Lady Penelope held up a hand. "Agreed. But this has to be done the right way. We'll call them, we'll give them the salient points over the phone. We need to at least get them started. I don't know about you, but these aren't the kind of men I want running around free. _Then_ we will go and find him. I still can't think of any reason why anyone would want to kidnap Jeff Tracy. Your father has always had a modicum of security by ensuring he never made those kind of enemies, nor making himself a profitable target."

"I don't know, I don't know if I care," Virgil said flatly. "Let's just find them."

"Finding out why can be the key to finding out who, Virgil," Lady Penelope reminded him gently. She activated her car phone and they called the police, briefly, while Parker clicked away industriously in the background.

"There," Lady Penelope switched off the phone mid-question. "A few minutes for the sake of justice. They will at least investigate it now. Parker?" Lady Penelope turned her coiffed head to the front seat, where  
Parker had turned his steering column into a keyboard and screen set from a touch of the many, many buttons at his disposal on the dash front, turning the car from vehicle to work station. Lines of code scrolled across the screen. On the second screen, over the centre of the dash, where the phone view, clock and other displays usually were, there was a map, pulsing helpfully in green and black. "Ready, milady."

Lady Penelope opened her own cell, and hit a number on speed dial. "Here we go…"

--------------------------------------------

Sam opened his eyes, eventually. It was hard going, even just for that. The air was still down here, but colder than a freezer, so that cold was nearly crystallising the air.

Pain helped. Sam was bruised and battered after the fall, his arm was a line of white, metallic fire, that went all the way from his shoulder joint to his fingertips. It was sharp, it had knives in it, and his weight was on it, none of which was a good thing. With a breathless groan, Sam rolled on his back and ended up falling a few feet as the uneven pile of debris he'd landed on shifted and collapsed as he moved. Landing on his good side was the only high point, the surface was rough and jagged and uneven.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Sam focused on breathing right. It was amazing what you could do if you were breathing, his Dad had once said to him. Everything, for a start. It wasn't like he hadn't had to do this before. He waited for the white to recede from his brain, and his senses to come back online. He was cold, he tallied. It was dark, from what he'd glimpsed as his eyes had opened the first time. The foundations beneath him were unstable and irregular. Aware that he could be in a potentially deadly situation, Sam slowly opened his eyes, and took in what he could without moving.

Above him, the stars showed up against the gloom and he was disorientated when he saw them swirl and whirl around before his eyes before the perspective clicked and the stars became tiny flakes of snow drifting in through the hole in the ceiling. Above him was nothing but a murk, bracketed by the dull whistling of the wind blowing above.

Driven to move by the wet cold hitting his face, Sam tried to lever himself upright with his good arm and get off the shifting pile of junk he'd landed on. Slowly, got himself sitting upright and, cradling his injured arm with a grimace, slowly slid off the debris pile to land on the cracked and dusty cement floor on cramped legs. He hissed as circulation returned, and the world shifted under his feet as his pounding head registered its protests, his stomach turning sickeningly. Sam reached blindly into the gloom for some support, any support, to keep him upright. His injured arm throbbed mercilessly.

His hands found a flat metal surface that turned out to be a shelf, canted to an angle but unable to actually fall because of all the other shelves in the way. Leaning on it gratefully, Sam let his eyes adjust to the gloom which was filled with jagged shapes. It was hard to see properly but it was dark and Sam knew he'd suffered a respectable blow to the head. Groping warily, Sam made sure to shuffle rather than stride on the shaky foundations at his feet, feeling his way with his good hand and limping along as best he could. His hand brushed a bumpy metal surface that was a solid horizontal plane and when he reached his hand up he felt the chill of glass. The bulldozer sat like a relic in a tomb, sprinkled in white. Sam had landed almost on top of it. He picked up a pinch of salt off the machine and gave an ironic smile. Alan Tracy had been very, very lucky.

Using the monolith as a rough guide, Sam weaved his way toward one of the walls, hoping to find a door out.

What he found was a hole – a huge hole – cut into the walls. He found it after stepping on a cylindrical object and nearly having his foot roll out from under him. The glow stick shone like a dying glow worm, and Sam had followed the dim trail back to its source.

What a hole, Sam thought. It had been cut as neat and easy as butter, right through the walls and out into the earth. He picked up a glow stick and shook it, hoping to coax a better light from it with minimal success. He peered into the pitch black of the hole and whistled. Impressive.

If his arm had not been so badly damaged, he could have attempted to climb up that way, but the throbbing warned him against it. On the bright side, the very faint lights from the abandoned glow sticks were just enough for Sam to examine his arm. There was definitely a…worrying looking kink where there shouldn't be in the forearm, and the burning sensation was a familiar friend from his childhood. But there was no blood, no things sticking out that should never see daylight, which was deeply gross and very dangerous. A mere break was something he could handle. Fumbling for his belt, Sam rigged a sling, painfully wrapping his wrist and cinching it against his chest. He sat on the ground and breathed until the pain subsided again.

Picking up a handful of sticks, he began again to find his way out.

_How had he gotten down here_? he thought for the first time. His memory was a little hazy. Something had been up there when he walked into the dorm, something had hit him hard enough to make him fall. But he, Sam, had gotten in a punch. Admittedly some spirits were not the see-through misty things most people thought they were, but there had been something very alive about the skin Sam's fist had connected with.

But it had been dark and Sam's memory was not helping him right now, so he was still unclear on the details. He wondered where Dean was. Sam was worried about him, though he knew he really shouldn't be. Dean landed on his feet most of the time. Not like Sam.

Weaving along the wall and using it as a guide, Sam continued his trek slowly. He didn't actually get very far. Not far from the hole was the mother lode they'd been searching for.

Sam had felt it all the way bone before he actually found it, but once that first prickle hit him between the eyes he knew what it was. He followed the feeling now, the cold suddenly so intense that his fingers went completely numb. He had reached a far corner of the basement, a remote little spot which still had standing shelves.

And there were voices…

…_see…look…anger…help…anger…anger…_

They were so faint, mere suggestions in the air, more felt than heard. Sam would take bets that no one had ever heard the voices, not like he was doing now. They had probably been nothing more than odd thoughts in the back of peoples' minds, weird fancies and feelings that people couldn't shake.

The cans and boxes on the shelves looked harmless enough, but in the dust there were prints all over and Sam's senses were ringing like bells.

He pulled out a box – it looked like it was full of flour, but as Sam plunged a hand beneath the surface he felt a cold shock travel up his arm and drive him back. Gingerly reaching his hand in again, Sam carefully excavated a meticulously made little roof. Inside his head, the spirit howled.

Sam grabbed a random can, and prised loose the lid – another one, tiny, no bigger than a pair of hands. There were footprints all along this little back row, filled with cans and tubs and sacks. Randomly ripping open a paper sack, sugar spilled out in a flood, draining away from tiny windows

Sam looked around him in horrified awe. If all of this row were filled with these ghost traps…Sam had been expecting only a few! Corralling spirits _was_ difficult, Dean had that one right. Every moment you held it, it screamed at you, hovered around everywhere you went, the cold, nauseating feeling of death and eternity postponed which was quite indescribable to anyone who hadn't felt it before, would be all around the controller, all the time. The sickness and pressure would be constant. There were _dozens_ down here. Sam could feel them from all sides, the icy screams were deafening and cutting. Sam fought not to back away. The caged spirits felt like deep sea pressure, straining to explode.

There was a clatter that echoed through the cold air, and Sam had spun around and scooped up a chunk of wood in his good hand before he even thought about it. There were voices – _living_ voices, fighting their way through the dank gloom.

"_Where are they?_"

"_Back here. Come on, he said we don't have a lot of time!_"

Sam back away as torch lights came closer. He was in no condition to fight. He slunk away into the shadows, secreting himself in an odd corner to watch as the lights came closer.

-----------------------------------------------------

Ringing. That's what brought him around. The sound seemed to bounce around the inside his skull and get louder and louder and…

_Ouch_, thought John wholeheartedly. He opened his fuzzy eyes and saw off white linoleum stretching to the near horizon.

"…_meone get a stretcher in here, please! I need neck brace and a basic tray!_" There were hands gently checking his neck and back.

"God, stop shouting," John groaned, moving on his back and raising a handto his pulsing forehead.

"Don't move. No, _don't_ move I said!" said a voice over him.

John looked up into the face of a rather put out Asian man who was pinning him expertly by the shoulders to keep him down.

John lay still for moment, waiting for his brain to come back. He took a breath. "What's happening?" he mumbled.

"First things first," the doctor replied firmly. "What's you name?"

"John," John answered, opening his eyes again. The light wasn't so agonising this time. "John Tracy."

"Tracy? Oh cripes. Why am I even surprised?" the doctor rolled his eyes. "Whoa, hold on, hold on!"

John levered himself upright on pure horror. "Alan! Where's Alan?' the dizziness hit him and he lowered a hand to the floor to steady himself.

"Don't _move_ John!" the doctor had him by the shoulders again. "I'm Doctor Yoong, I'm your brother's doctor. We found you passed out on the floor of his room. _Hold it!_"  
John found himself in an iron grip as he tried to get up further. "You were unconscious for an indeterminate amount of time. What that means is you're damn well sitting still until I can check you over, okay? Now then…" Yoong got out a pen light. "Do you know what day it is?" he shone the light in his eyes.

"Thursday, November twenty ninth or thirtieth depending on the time, 2061, McKay's the president, I'm twenty three and in Community General, and you're Doctor Yoong, okay? I'm fine!" he glared at the doctor, the effect somewhat ruined by the doctor tilting his head to check the impact site. "_Where's Alan_?"

Doctor Yoong sat back slightly. "We don't know. We're looking for him. You were the only one in the room when the night nurse found you."

John scrubbed a hand over his face. "I need to…"

"You need to sit still for a minute," Doctor Yoong said firmly. "We've called the police, we've informed security. Everyone is doing their jobs, and that one is yours." Doctor Yoong got John up and over to the abandoned bed.

"No! You don't understand, I'm not just going to sit here!" The phone started ringing again, cutting John off. John winced at the shrill sound, but he fumbled for the cell on the bedside anyway. "What?"

"_John, get Alan and head for the airstrip,_" Scott's voice came over, sharp and urgent. "_We may have a major security breach, I need you to get him back to the Island_."

"Hang on Scott, what?" John rubbed his head again, trying for clarity. "What are you talking about?"

"_Virgil just called me,_" Scott explained, sounding frustrated. "_He and Gordon are with Lady Penelope and they're trying to track Dad – Virgil and Gordon saw some guys heist him into a van and drive out of the parking lot._"

"Lady Penelope?…What…" a fact jumped out at John. "Dad's been _kidnapped_?"

"_Yes! And it might have something to do with the family business, so I need you and Alan back on the Island, now! Sign whatever forms you need and get both of you out of town, John!_"

"Too late," John groaned, gripping a handful of hair angrily. "Alan just got snatched out of his room. They knocked me out and took him."

"_What? When?_" Scott yelled. John grunted, wincing. "_John, are you okay?_"

"'m fine," John answered ignoring the snort from the good doctor, who was disinfecting the graze on the side of John's head. "They clocked me with something – a rock or something. Alan was gone when I woke up…" John trailed off as his memory reactivated. "Jesus Christ, Scott, it was a bunch of _kids_!"

---------------------------------------------------

Jeff stared at the painting on the wall, keeping his face blank for the sake of the cameras. It was an opulent room, empty except for the leather bench seat. One door out to the elevator, which was guarded, and one door in to what Jeff assumed was an office. In between was this room, a small sitting room. The doors had been locked on either side.

His captors had not spoken to him once during the twenty minute ride in the windowless van. He'd asked questions, but they had been silent. But – they had not reacted violently, and they hadn't threatened him. The only thing they had done was take is phone off him when it buzzed in the van. After a career in the military, Jeff knew the difference between an enemy who meant it, and one that didn't.

So, he mused. Not money or extortion, at least not in the classical way. It wasn't political, because people liked to talk about their causes. IR? Possible, he thought grimly. Possible. But it was unplanned then, because no one could have been sure he would come and in any case, why not target his sons instead?

It was funny, Jeff thought idly to himself, noting each detail in the exquisite painting in front of him. He was boiling mad. He knew it, he could feel it. But at the same time he was perfectly tranquil. It was like he'd travelled to the other side of anger. He also knew it wouldn't last long.

The door leading to the elevator was unlocked with a scrape of metal, and Jeff turned stiffly to see it open. Guards – some different people it looked like – threw in a young man about Scott's age. He was dressed in jeans and a leather jacket, at least what you could see of him that wasn't covered in caked mud. Unlike Jeff, who had come quietly and been escorted in quietly, this young man had been thrown in hard and looked highly dishevelled. And he did nothing quietly. "Thanks a freakin' lot guys! It was a real pleasure!" he yelled at their retreating backs. He got up and dusted himself off as best he could. Then he noticed Jeff. "Did you bring me here? 'Cause I'm warning you my threshold of patience is below sea level."

Jeff's eyes narrowed. "No. And yours couldn't possibly be lower than mine right now, young man."

Green eyes looked right at him, a good deal sharper than his manner suggested. "You look familiar," he said after a moment. "You're Jeff Tracy, aren't you?"

Jeff was subjecting the young man to a long, complete scrutiny. After all the strangeness that had occurred since his son's rescue, he shouldn't be surprised to see him here. "Yes. And that only leaves one question – are you Dean, or Sam?"

Dean watched him with a carefully sculptured straight face. "What makes you think…?"

Jeff held up a white square of card. "You left this is my son's room," he raised an eyebrow. "After you went in under a lie…Dean."

Dean gave a long stare and said nothing, which was a complete giveaway in itself, he realised later.

Jeff took four strides to cross the room until he was half a foot from Dean and looking him dead in the eye, green to brown. "What do you want from my son?"

Dean's eyes flickered around the room briefly, scanning like a pro. "Uh…you want to argue about this here? Right now?"

"Yes! Right here and right now, face to face, when I can look you in the eye and you can't lie to me!"

The words came out like they were fired from a nail gun with enough force to pin Dean to a wall. Dean fought the urge to step back or lean back. He's ex-military and a mogul, thought Dean, you don't get there by being _nice_. "What makes you think…"

"I know," Jeff cut in flatly. "You show up whenever there's trouble, so either you follow it or it follows you. Whatever, as my sons say. I'm certain you know, because I'm certain no one else does! So you can damn well give me an answer, young man!"

Dean glared back at him for minute. For a second there, he's had a flashback to his own father – the words, the exact words he'd used many times. Dean didn't look away though, his own Dad had taught him that much. "We're not the one's trying to hurt him. We were asking him questions, doesn't that tell you something? But something is after him, I don't know why, but I also don't ask those kind of questions. I just want to stop it, okay?"

Jeff sent him a look that seemed to leisurely read the truth off the back of his brain. "It. You said it. No a person. _Something_. What?"  
Dean was slightly impressed. It was amazing how few people spotted that innocuous little word. "Yeah. Something. Look, I don't expect you to believe me – not many people do. It's just easier and cheaper to keep lying, at least you can find out what you need without having to answer a million stupid questions or getting sneered at. We…my brother and I, we deal with stuff that culture and society and law and all that stuff either forgot or wasn't set up for, stuff that will still kill and maim and destroy people but there's no ordinary justice to deal with it." Actually, that was one of Sammy's explanations. It was a bit wordy but a damn good phrase all the same. Dean shrugged. "We hunt them. That's what we do. Where all that normality stuff fails and people get hurt regardless, that's where people like us step in."

"That's why you're trunk was a stocked armoury?" Jeff asked, eyebrows raised.

"Ye…how the _hell_ did you know _that_?" Dean snapped.

"Easy. I had someone beak in and have a look," Jeff replied unrepentantly. "You'll find there are very few lines I won't cross when it comes to my family." He took a look at Dean's enraged face. "Relax, young man. I didn't steal anything and I didn't scratch the paint work. I know better than to tangle with a man's classic."

Dean fought his territorial anger down. They'd violated his _car_. Not nice, his brain prodded him. Jeff Tracy was not nice, not underneath. Not after his career. "You better not have old man or I will pound you flat!"

Jeff Tracy's lips twitched in what looked like the first smile of the night. "That might be more difficult than you think. Give it a couple of days and I can get a paying audience."

Dean stared at him for a minute, before relaxing and smirking a bit. Gutsy old man, he thought. He might present a bit of a challenge at that. Jeff Tracy had lived a lifetime of hard work, and had clearly maintained his fitness level into his middle age.

Dean resented his thoughts for pointing it out, but there was a very John Winchester like quality in Tracy. The kind of steely, action hungry, ruthless, intelligent, practical resolve. You couldn't imagine either of them giving up on _anything_, even outgunned and outclassed. A fleeting thought flashed through Dean's head, mostly irrelevant. What had Tracy done to get over the death of his wife?

"What is after my son?" Jeff Tracy asked again, firmly but not angrily. He'd believed Dean – not trusted, but not dismissed. "And no cunning euphemisms or straight faced bull. I don't sneer readily. The truth; what is it?"

Dean tried to take offence at the demanding tone, but he was used to being ordered in that kind of way and knew it wasn't personal. "Engineers and scientists," Dean muttered almost to himself. "Worst believers in the world. Okay, fine," he rolled his eyes. "The truth, for what it's worth. An angry ghost. Or, you know, several ghosts – we haven't figured it all out yet. Poltergeist is the technical term." He waited.

"A…poltergeist," Jeff repeated, but his tone didn't hold a soupcon of disbelief, merely a puzzlement that meant he was trying to fit that into his head the right way. He latched onto something that fit. "You hunt…ghosts?"

Dean watched him carefully, but it had been a sincere question. He shrugged. "Ghosts, monsters, all sorts of nasties like that," he carefully steered away from the word 'demon'. Most people didn't want to know that. "You know…" he continued uncomfortably. "Supernatural. Stuff that law and science cut out of culture." Another Sammy line, but Sammy was so much better with actual words than Dean. He hoped Sam was okay. If he wasn't he, Dean., would personally knock his teeth out; _after_ pumping whatever hurt him full of silver or salt. It was funny how uncomfortable saying the words felt. Dean had told so many lies about their work that the truth had become alien.

Jeff turned that over in his mind. He couldn't get the whole idea in at a time, he had to examine it from several angles. He knew enough to know it wasn't a lie – it was too elaborate to be a con, and too much had happened that he couldn't explain and…well…before the Hood, he might not have believed so readily, but he _had_ faced the man and…

"Why did you lie and hide?" Jeff asked. "Why didn't you just come to me?"

"I know it sounds cr…_what_?" Dean was unbalanced by the unexpected response. It was like having a chair pulled out from under him. "Excuse me? You don't just walk up to a stranger and tell him that the monster under his bed when he was three was real! Most people resent that kind of thing! I've been chased out of town by a pitchfork-mob for that sort of thing, dammit! You're saying you wouldn't have thrown me out or decked me? Your son sure did!"

Jeff lips twitched again. "Scott has sharp instincts and no patience for liars. He doesn't tend to care much about people's motivations when they threaten his brothers. After hearing that you shot in to my son's room with a shotgun, I don't know that I would have been very understanding either, good reason or no. Look son," Jeff answered the slightly disorientated look in Dean's eyes. "I have been everywhere and walked almost every walk known to man. I started poor on the farm and ended rich in the city. I've dealt with every kind of country, person, culture and prejudice on the face of the earth in my travels. I've been down in the deepest mining shafts and halfway into the solar system. Do you think, after all of that, I _haven't_ seen things I can't explain? I've got a damn _list_, son, and it must be three miles long. I didn't get to where I am by being close-minded either."

Dean gave him a look. "Oh. Okay." He replied noncommittally, but what he didn't say was that Jeff wasn't ready for the real truth about the world – not the real one, about demons in hell and immortal monsters and the dead never leaving. No one ever was.

"So, what…?" But Jeff didn't get any further because the second door, the one Jeff hadn't seen through yet, unlocked and opened.

The office was brightly lit – very brightly, like an operating room. The walls were white, the floors gleamed oily with richly polished wood and was covered by a large, sumptuous rug. At the back wall was an enormous desk, and behind the desk was an enormous man – not fat, but broad and tall and built big as some men are. There were unpleasant folds around his jowls that suggested he may have been fat until recently. They diminished his dignity slightly. He didn't seem to fit in his own skin.

Dean tried to make out the name on the nameplate, but Jeff Tracy's astonished voice gave him one anyway.

"Walt?" Jeff was blindsided. "Walt Barstom? What the _hell _is this all about?"

The big man's smile was quicksilver and not all that sincere. "Jeff, I really am very sorry about this, but I needed to speak to you urgently. I gave strict instructions not to harm you or your sons – that wasn't my intention." His hands twitched on the desk like spiders.

"When you want to speak to me, you use the phone," Jeff's voice lowered to an alpha male growl. "You _do not_ send armed thugs. Now tell me what this is all about, you son of a bitch!"

But Barstom didn't answer right away. He turned to the silent and steely Dean, who was casing the windowless, stuffy, slightly stale-aired office expertly. "Mr Winchester, I can't tell you what an honour it is to meet you. I've heard so much your exploits."

Dean eyes narrowed to slits. There were so many things not to like about this guy.

"Oh, come now, don't be shy. Despite your little heart to heart with my friend Jeff out there, I can assure you your secret it the best known secret in the world. In certain circles, anyway. Jefferson, I'm honestly surprised you didn't know!" The big man's shoulders shuffled themselves under the clean, dark suit.

"Did you loose your hearing with your weight, Barstom?" Jeff spoke sharply, coming forward to rest his fists on the desk. "_What am I doing here_?"

The big man tried to outstare the leaner one, but Jeff's anger as a river of lava that burned through anything in its way. "Well, to be frank, Jeff, it's about Wharton's," he said eventually. "The bulldozer malfunction was a terrible, terrible accident. My company is taking full responsibility for it, and it paying to have the whole lot repaired and restored. I'd offer you compensation too, but I know you'd never take it. I just don't want you to worry on that score, that's all."

"You haven't answered me," Jeff snarled. "Why did you bring me here? I barely know you, aside from a few functions. If you needed to tell me that, there was no need for any of this. Besides, if you know him," Jeff jerked his head at Dean, who was both watching them and darting his eyes around the room. He appeared to be looking for something. "Then you know there's a hell of a lot more to this than just industrial error. What are you trying to cover up?"

"It was just an…accident, Jeff," Barstom steepled his fingers while his foot tapped against the rug pensively. "Just an accident. No one was hurt, no one _will_ be hurt, and no one will be out of pocket. We have a new automated drive system in our construction machines powered by…well, perhaps you can make a guess, Mr Winchester? It _seemed_ like a good idea."

Dean, who was trying to identify a certain smell in the air – it reminded him of something – was brought back into the conversation with a thump. His jaw nearly dropped. "Are you trying to tell me you put million ton machines under the command of _ghosts_?"

"Not command, exactly," Barstom said into the stunned silence. "Not _command_. Oh I hired a whole bunch of parapsychologists to look into the…viability of spiritual energy. It's a whole new field, cutting edge, hush hush. The governments been looking into psychics from the nineteen fifties, you know. J Edgar Hoover collecting psychics for Cold War secrets did turn out to be a bit of a joke, but that doesn't mean they ever lost interest. That was over a century ago. Can you imagine what they've come up with now? It was an experimental design and it reacted badly outside a lab environment. People will _accept_ that, Jeff. I've told you the truth. There's no need to call the feds onto me – I have admitted and accepted responsibility. It won't happen again. Mr Winchester, I might have a job for you and your brother. I'm sorry about your treatment, but my security people weren't trained for much coherent thought. But your br…you both may be able to help me."

Dean's hackles went all the way up, as they often did around patronizing bastards, and especially patronizing bastards who were far too interested in his little brother. "You're on acid, right? You're kidding. You want us to fix your mistakes? You can go to hell. You _stay away_ from Sam, got it?" It all came out in a furious burst, like a machine gun.  
"I can offer you substantial rewards…" said Barstom, his head jerking from side to side, as if he was trying to see a way in.

Dean's fist came down on the table so hard it shook the massive thing, and echoed around the stark, too bright office. "_Sam is not for sale_!" he bellowed. "And neither am I! I don't care if the world's about to end, I'm not giving you help with _any_ of your problems!" The smell was really getting to Dean now. It took him back. A long way back…

"_See him Dean? Take a good look. That's what messing with spirits does to you. You might think you can take it, but eventually they'll wear you down. It's easy to do it. It's as easy as a few words. It's impossible to control, though, see? Whatever they give, they'll take back, and steal everything else besides. You must never try it, understand? Even if you need the edge. Never, understand?"_

"_Yes Dad," young Dean had whispered, watched the twitching, soiled, shaking skeleton that huddled from the light, surrounded by wards and the stink of fragrant smoke…_

Sage, thought Dean. That's what I can smell. Sage, aniseed, holly, St Johns wort, and a dozen other protective herbs permeated the air and faintly discoloured the white walls. People might have taken it for a strong air freshener or cologne, but Dean remembered that smell like he remembered his name.

Look closer, watch for the little signs, his father had told him. Now that he was sure, all of them popped out at him at once. The desk was ash and hazel, more protection; the lights didn't allow for any shadowy corners; the man himself never actually sat still. Some part of him was always twitching or jerking. He'd clearly lost a great deal of weight. And, if Dean wasn't very much mistaken, there was concealer on his face, hiding the pasty complexion and the bags under the eyes. And then there was the look in his eyes, so distinct Dean wondered how he'd missed it at first glance. Here was a man teetering over the Pit.

"Don't listen to anything he says," Dean told Jeff abruptly. "He just told the biggest load of crap I've ever heard. He's got bigger problems that machines right now, don't you _Walt_?" Dean bared his teeth in a feral smirk. "Chose the easy way to get ahead, didn't you? And now it's not so…easy."

Barstom's face pinched into an ugly scowl. "I don't know what…"

"_Sure_ you do," Dean interrupted cheerfully while Jeff looked back and forth suspiciously. In one quick movement Dean reached down, yanked up the edge of the huge rug, and hauled a spare knife out of his boot.

Underneath, built in darker wood into the floor there was, well Jeff thought, it looked like a geometric pattern set into a circle, if it was the same all around. He didn't understand the significance, but judging from their host's reaction as Dean unmasked it and put his knife against it, it was very significant indeed.

Dean whistled. "My, my. What does an upstanding person like you need with a _kekkai_, Walt?" He brought his knife down on the edge. "That's an Asian protective ward against, well, everything really. It's to keep things in. Or out." He watched Barstom's face.

"What are you doing?" Barstom demanded, unease in his voice. He'd stood up from his desk.

"You do know what will happen if I break the circle, right?" Dean asked nastily. "Just one scored line…"

"No!" The panicked yell made Jeff's face swing back towards Barstom in surprise.

"No, I didn't think you'd like that idea," Dean said grimly. "That's it, isn't it? You've been using them to get ahead, to give you all the juicy tips, to spy for you. How long have you been doing it? Summoning spirits for personal gain – that's a big no-no. Especially when control starts to slip, right? It gets so bad you don't turn off the lights anymore. You just never know what's waiting in the shadows for you, right? That's what happened, _right_?" The knife made a tiny scar in the wood, not breaking the circle.

"No! I mean, yes," Barstom answered, still panicked, watching the knife like a scared rabbit watches a fox. "Yes, they're out of my control now. Please, I need your help! It's getting unbearable! Your brother could help me…"

"My brother's not coming anywhere near you," Dean said flatly. The knife moved again, increasing the tension to a honey thickness. "Never. We're not helping you out of this, you bastard. You were greedy and selfish and stupid – that's all your problem. Not ours. You'll get whatever you deserve. We're just here to make sure your pet ghosts don't hurt anyone else. Tell me how you summoned them, so we can send them back. Now!" the knife made a squeaky sound as it continued it's millimetre journey slightly.

Barstom sat down. He seemed dwarfed now. "No," he replied coldly, nevertheless. "Not unless you help me."

"Barstom!" Jeff's voice was a bark. The knife scored a further cut.

"Spill, or I'll open the gates and get some popcorn for the show," Dean snapped.

Jeff didn't approve of this at all, but as the man sat down and mumbled something along the lines of 'I can't', something struck him. He had a sense of fellow feeling with Barstom, as revolting as it sounded.

"Dean, wait," Jeff said, holding up a hand as the thought completed itself. "You can't tell us, can you Barstom? It wasn't you. It was your son, wasn't it? Walter the Third. It's his mess you're trying to clean up."

Dean lifted the knife away as their host flinched. "Oh. So that's it." Sam got the method but not the culprit. "He must be a real chip off the old block." Dean stood up. "Does he know what's going to happen to him if he keeps this up?"

"I don't know," Barstom put his head in his hands. "I never told him about it. I never taught him anything. He's foolish and impulsive and always doing stupid things to get my attention. I pay for every luxury that boy has, and he is still ungrateful enough to cause problems for me at every turn!"

Jeff gave the man a long stare – what he wanted to say was; of _course_ your son does stupid things, he's a _teenager_. That's what they do. And buying him fancy toys won't make up make up for missed birthdays or Christmases or any other little moment you ignored or forgot. Jeff knew this, and had never tried it. And of _course_ he wants your attention – you're his father, that's something you owe him. He shouldn't be starving for it any case. And if you seriously don't think your son ever noticed anything about you or what you do, then you must _really_ ignore him most of the time. All you had to do was come home from the office a little earlier, or make a few phone calls, or something small like that. It wouldn't have _cost_ you anything at all!

But the man was as self-centred as a circle, and it would be wasted on him. Instead, Jeff said "I'm going now, Barstom. Stop me, and there will be trouble, understand?"

Dean turned to follow him too. "Wait! You're not going to help me?" Barstom yelled. He got from behind his desk, but was halted like a wall by the edge of the rug.

"Hey, you're the safest man on the planet right now, what with the _kekkai_ and everything. Why do you need our help?" Dean slammed the door closed on him.

He turned to follow Jeff to elevator. "Hey! Where are you heading?"

-----------------------------------------------------

Lady Penelope had Parker pull over when Gordon flashed his lights at them. The SUV swerved up to the pink machine jerkily.

"We're nearly there boys. Parker seems to have it narrowed down to a single block now. A few minute of triangulations when we get there and we'll have…"

"Lady," Gordon's face was white. "Alan's been taken too! Scott just called! They knocked out John and Alan is gone. Scott's says he's on his way down. He said that John told him that it was a bunch of school kids that took him! He thinks they're heading back to Wharton's. They were all wearing the uniform. What should we do?"

The Lady's answer was quick and decisive. "You two, head for Wharton's. I'll redirect the police there too. _I'll_ go and get your father," Lady Penelope held up a hand. "No, no arguments. You're brother is injured and will need plenty of reinforcements on his side. I don't believe your father is in any real danger, boys. They didn't take him out of the city as far as I can tell. I've got contacts and people that can help me get him back quickly and quietly. Whatever trouble your father is in, Parker, myself and FAB 1 can handle it. I will collect your father and meet you at Wharton's. If we have no luck there, we will scour until we find him. Run along now," she waved a hand. "Forward, Parker." The pink car vanished into the night.

Gordon rolled up the window. "Aren't you glad we ask for her opinion on things?" he muttered to his brother ironically.

Virgil just threw up his hands in defeat. "Drive. Drive fast."

The SUV squealed it's tyres as it took a u-turn at high speed, and headed the other way.

------------------------------------------

Sam waited until the voices had died away. _Kids_, he thought in horror. _Just kids_.

It explained the sheer volume of spirits. Kids were more resilient to the supernatural world, just like they were to many other things. In an odd sort of way they were better at dealing with it.

But Sam didn't think they realised what they'd gotten into. They only think they have control. Unless one of them really hated Alan Tracy, the bulldozer seemed evidence of their control starting to slip.

When you command a ghost, they give you what you want, Sam knew. That was significant. It was different than giving you what you _need_. All those hidden desires, dark thoughts, petty cruelties that everyone had and most people ignored, the spirit wouldn't ignore them. It wouldn't know how. It just knows it has to obey, anything you tell it, and, when you're control starts getting shaky, anything you think of. Your mind is the first place they break into, that's why people who _really_ summoned spirits – not for greed or power, but because it was their job, had to have absolute mental control. Meditation was very big in most of the major religions because of this. If you want to deal on the spiritual plane, controlling your own mind was a keystone to surviving. You had to have somewhere to come back to.

Maybe one of them did hate Alan, Sam pondered. And when their control slipped, the spirits merely acted on that desire. No wonder Ivan was so terrified by what had happened. It must have been nasty to realize that all this tinkly, magic assistance came with a very real dark side. The sudden knowledge that the tiger you through you'd caged has learned how to work the lock would be shaking. What's worse is you know the tiger will be coming for you, eventually.

Ivan had looked to him for advice, Sam realised, when they had spoken. Sam had said he'd wanted to stop it, that the people responsible had to be stopped. And Ivan had gone to the teacher's quarter with him. To confess, maybe? But someone or something had pitched him off a bridge before he talked. Not Spit Valve. Someone else. Sam had been wrong about the teacher, even if he was a complete ass.

Sam had only wanted to get out of here, but now he knew he had to do something first. He had to destroy these spirits – they were already straining against their bonds, spoiling for a fight. The kids probably hadn't even realised it. They probably didn't know that the ghost traps could be weakened by persistent pressure especially if the traps were amateurish and the spirits violent. When they burst free, it would be destruction of epic proportions. Not just the ruined dorm, not just the spirit-trapping kids, but everything with ten miles.

Sam had to stop them first. If he destroyed them while they were still in their traps, then maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Bound, they were weaker.

Salt and fire, Sam thought. Well, he had _lots _of salt. Slowly, his eyes turned toward the bulldozer, lying there, snowed and salted. Slowly, he clambered towards it, and, one handed, searched the engine for the cap he was looking for.

He found one and unscrewed. The heavy smell of industrial, refined, _extremely flammable_ petrol poured out like manna from heaven.

Okay, Sam thought grinning slightly. Salt and fire. A ghost hunter's best friends.

-------------------------------------------

Scott sent a brief, terse communiqué to Thunderbird Five. Don't Take Any Calls. IR is shutting down.

Then he headed for the silo, heart pounding a sharp beat. Alan. Dad. Why did everything go wrong the minute he was out of their sight?

Scott ran to the silo lift behind his own portrait, and dropped down unheeding of the speed, trying to plan and calculate with what little he knew. All he really knew was that he had to get there now.

Scott always said later he'd _intended_ to head for the plane hanger. The silos were just a shortcut. But even as he hit the silo floor and was speeding past the denuded Thunderbird Two, his steps slowed. His magnificent machine sat there innocently, refuelled and checked, ready for action. He couldn't. He _shouldn't_. Some rules were too sacred to break.

But a part of his panic was the cold, logical, heartbreaking knowledge that whatever happened to his family, he would get there too late.

_No_, he screamed inside.

_No._

His machine sat there, and echoed what he thought.

Some rules were too sacred to break. Being there for the family was one of them.

----------------------------------------------

"No. No, no, _no_!" the Doctor was nearly shaking John in frustration. "You're not going anywhere! I don't _care_ if your genetics demand that you run heedless into the fray even if your guts are hanging out! There is _no way in hell_…!"

"The tests came back negative, and I'm not bleeding inside my head," John glared at him. "All I've got is a headache. If it gets any worse, I will gladly submit myself to your mercy, but _right now_ I've got to go any find my little brother."

"What can you do? Run around like a headless chicken? That's apt you know. Do you know what they do when they autopsy a head injury victim? They chop off the head and _boil_ it," Doctor Yoong threw up his hands. "Though, fair enough, maybe a Tracy wouldn't notice. It's stupid of you to run around out there, John! The police are _trained_ for this kind of running around, they're better at bewilderment that you! Let them do their jobs!"

"They'll be searching the streets for hours before they head up to Wharton's!" John snapped back, wincing as a shot of pain gripped his temples. "I've told them that's where Alan is, but they think I'm nuts! They want to wait for the feds. To wait!"

"And how do you know where your brother is?" Doctor Yoong checked his eyes again, ignoring the glare from them. "Magic eight ball?"

"No! It's just…" we always know where to find each other, John finished mentally. We always have. It's a knack, somewhere between instinct and complete familiarity. We just _know_. "A hunch." He concluded aloud.

"Oh, a hunch," the doctor rolled his eyes. "Very logical. Very scientific. Look," he made his voice gentle. "I _understand_, okay? I've got siblings too, and lord knows I'd be about as nuts as you're acting right now if our situations were reversed. I get it. But you go running around out there and you'll just get in the way and maybe hurt yourself, and what help is that going to be? Just sit and wait, John. I know it's hard – I work in an ER, I've seen a thousand different manifestations. But sometimes that's all there is to be done."

"I don't care about what can or should be done," John pushed the penlight away. "I don't care about getting in the way. I'll take that risk. This is _family_, doctor. I don't think you'd just sit around either. That's not why you became a doctor."

They glared at each other.

"Look, this isn't a prison," John argued stubbornly. "I have the right to leave. I know the risks, give me the form to sign and it's not your problem."

The doctors eyes went slightly colder. "Fine! Have it your way! After working in a hospital I know there's no smart way to get yourself killed. At least you'll be throwing your life away for a cause." He said bitterly. "That makes it _so_ much more worthwhile."

"You have a fantastic bedside manner," John levered himself off the gurney.

"I'm a doctor, John," Doctor Yoong shrugged as he swirled out of the room. "Do you have any idea how much stupid, stupid waste I see?"

John grimaced to himself as he weaved his way to the exits. The doctor was being sensible and John wasn't. He knew this. But Alan had been stolen out from under him. John had to get him back. He was _responsible_.

In the parking lot, the logistics of his situation caught up with him – he had no car, they'd taken a cab from the airstrip. Getting another one would take time, and Gordon was the one with all the money. _Damn_.

He'd get there. Even if he had to damn well _walk._

There was a jingle behind him. He turned to see Doctor Yoong holding up his car keys. Stripped of the white coat, he looked even smaller.

"I thought I was being stupid," John pointed out, slightly accusing.

"You still are," Yoong shot back. "You also forgot to sign the form, you idiot, which means I'm still responsible. You're _not_, you know," he added. "But I didn't think you'd believe me. So how about a deal? We go up to Wharton's and if there's nothing there, John, you will be coming back with me and, just because I can, _not only_ will I order a week of bed rest, I will also give you the most painful and invasive test I can medically justify. Give me any trouble, and my little black bag is full of sleepy juice, comprende?"

"Si," John said cheerfully. "What's the most invasive test you can do on my head, anyway?"

"Who said anything about your head?" Yoong strode towards his modest sedan. "You'd be amazed how many reasons there are to give someone a colonoscopy."

----------------------------------------------

Alan shivered in the trunk of the stolen car at it swerved and bumped its way to Wharton's. He was worried about John. He remembered seeing him go down, but being dragged out and shoved in here was a blur of pain and fuzziness from his head.

_Stay awake_, he told himself.

The car finally stopped after a series of agonising rattles. The drivers clearly weren't experienced. Alan didn't and couldn't protest as he was dragged out of the trunk and into the night air. It took him a moment to recognise the dim shapes in front of his eyes.

"Why'd you bring me to the construction site, Caleb?"

"Shut up!" Green eyes glared at him and he was pulled to his feet and shove down the hill.

"You _bastard_," Alan swore as he stumbled down the gentle slope toward the wrecked dorm. "If you've hurt John you'll never run far enough! They'll be _nowhere_ for you to hide from me!"

"Shut up!" Caleb shoved him to the ground. "I am so _sick_ of hearing about your stupid family! They're so good and they're so great and they're my heroes," he sneered in a sing-song. "As if anyone believes that! You're just like the rest of us, Tracy, just another acquisition in the vault. You make up stupid stories to other people just because you don't want to believe it! I used to do it! I used to tell myself Daddy really loved me and wanted me," Caleb shook his head in disgust. "How freakin' sad."

Alan curled up against the pain of his ribs. "Okay, so you're father sucks," he snapped out. "Don't you dare compare him to mine! Mine is just the way he is! And he does love me, I can't seem to do anything about it! Maybe it's you, did you ever think of that? Maybe you're just not someone _anyone_ could love!"

The punch nearly made him pass out. "_Shut up_! You're going to _die_, Tracy. You're always so goody-goody, but you're still just a delinquent on the record. They'll blame you for this."

Alan coughed and choked and tried not to give in to the blackness in his vision. He looked up at Caleb, who bent down with unfocused, irrational eyes. "We'll see how much your family loves you after juvie. If they don't get to claim your _corpse_."

Caleb stood back, swaying a little. He wasn't thinking straight, that was clear.

"Hey…Caleb," said an uncomfortable voice. It was Double E, and Robbie, and Colsan. All the gang was here. "We got the…uh," he held up what to Alan's eyes looked like an oddly shaped box. "What are you doing?'

To the others, Caleb stood panted and twitching over the huddled Alan. His eyes gleamed worriedly. "Good. Bring me one," he ordered.

"I don't know about this, Cay," Colsan mentioned uneasily. "They're going to ask questions about how he got here. I…don't think we should do this. It doesn't feel right anymore."

"Yeah, I mean," Robbie added. "It was great and all, having all the answers to the tests and stuff, but now…now the cold won't go away! The nightmares don't stop. I can't remember when I last slept through the night! This…this is all going wrong."

"Oh, is that so?" Caleb waved a hand. "You want to go back to being nobodies? How about we just let all the ghosts go, I'm sure they'll all just leave us alone. Oh, and hey, we could all go and give ourselves up for the bulldozer and the little squealer brat too, I'm _sure_ they'll understand if we say we didn't _really_ mean it." Caleb's voice cut like a blade.

There was silence from the rest of the group.

"Guys," Alan huffed out, hauling himself to his knees. "What did you _do_? I mean…ghosts…I don't…"

"It's power, Tracy," Caleb chuckled in the back of his throat. "Pure power. There were so many ghosts on that hill. If you give them food, they'll tell you _anything_. The answers to the next test, when the teachers are coming, they'll steal things for you, everything. If you know how to control them. The ACP's are _nothing_, they're just a stepping stone. The dead can give you anything," he was grinning as he rubbed his arms, shivering. They were all shivering, all pale, all waxy looking and strung out.

Alan was silent for a moment. But after being lifted up and nearly choked to death by a man from across the room, his disbelief threshold was pretty high. "Okay…okay, I get it. I totally get getting the easy answers to the test, and the ACP's and everything else. But why," he asked quietly. "Why did you hurt Ivan? Why? He was your _friend_, wasn't he? What piece of paper could have been worth doing that to him?"

Double E mumbled out. "He was going to tell…he got scared after the bulldozer. He was going to tell."

"So that makes it okay to kill him?" Alan demanded, bewildered and angry. "He's laying in the hospital. He can't even breathe on his own! He might never wake up! He did nothing to you except help you with your homework and help you plan pranks and smuggle in a bottle of vodka in to you at Christmas! Wasn't that worth anything to you?"

"He was a traitor. Weak," Caleb shot in, irritated. "You don't get along if you're weak, Tracy. Give me the…" a high pitched shriek was flung out into the night air. Caleb yelled, clapping his hands over his eyes. The others swayed back, curling up. Alan winced, but was startled. It wasn't _that_ bad.

"No! Don't drop them! Don't drop them!" Caleb howled as Double E fumbled with his shrieking box. The others were huddled over theirs.

He ran forward and grabbed the box and shook it and shook it. "_Shut up! Stop it! Just shut the hell up! Shut up shut up shutup!"_ Caleb screamed at it.

The shrieking died and the box trembled in Caleb's shaking hands.

"They're getting worse, Caleb," Colsan mumbled miserable, gripping his temple. "They just won't stop pounding…what if another one escapes, like the bulldozer?"

"You shut it too!" Caleb yelled. "We're fine! When they find Tracy in the dorm and see the tools we planted in his stuff, they'll think it was him. No harm, no foul."

"Except Ivan," Alan muttered. He glared at them. "I don't care what kind of whacked out power you've got. You tried to kill a friend. You cheat, you lie, you steal. You'll always be losers."

"That so?" Caleb cocked n eyebrow. "Well fine. How about we see who wins against a ghost, shall we?" He raised the box above his head, and Alan suddenly realised it was a little house. He also realised Caleb had left himself open.

He launched forward on his good foot, and ploughed into Caleb, shoving him back into the others. He just managed to keep his footing as the others toppled backwards, and them he made a limping run for the gutted dorm, the only place of safety near. He wasn't fast, but it wasn't far. Behind him, there was a howl of rage.

Something was flung after Alan. It shattered against the edge of the hole where Alan's room used to be as Alan ducked inside.

There was an ear splitting shriek and the angry ghost leapt free, invisible. The loose debris quaked in the face of it. It's unearthly howl echoed through the derelict ruin. Alan _felt_ the pure coldness grab him, and fling him out the doorway and into the main entrance, sliding across the uneven floor. Bits of wood whistled over his head like spears, and the spirits howled it's anger to the world.

_Whyhelpsorrowangerlooklookangerlookatmeanger…_

Up, Alan urged himself. Go up!

He flung himself toward the stairs, as the spirits energy ripped along the walls themselves, pulling and shaking, tearing anything it's way to splinters. It rose slowly, like a tide, imbuing everything around it into a weapon of enormous strength.

The building was going to shake apart. Alan fled upwards, with nowhere else to go.

--------------------------------------------------


	6. Chapter Five

Disclaimer: Thunderbirds and Supernatural, characters, concept etc, etc, belong to whoever created them, which does not include the author. Rats.

Warnings: A little bad language, intense situations, adult supernatural themes

Authors Notes: Finally! I know you're all saying it, and I do apologise. I may be slow, but I get there in the end. We're nearly to the end! Just an epilogue to go. Any action buff will enjoy this one – action, action, action all the way though.

To my loyal readers I gratefully and sheepishly acknowledge their patience. Sorry. Thanks. And sorry.

Please, read and review.

------------------------------------------

Chapter Five

------------------------------------------

The building was a warren – a mish-mash of office spaces and partitions, carving up the inner space in quite ugly ways. Barstom had only occupied the top three floors – but it was just a branch office.

Jeff wasn't entirely sure why he was allowing himself to be lead by this Dean somebody. He wasn't trustworthy, he wasn't stable, he'd just held a man's life up and squeezed it tight and _most_ of what he said was, if not a lie, then at least an obfuscation. But…that's where it got complicated. Nearly everything about Dean was a mystery. He _set out _to make it a mystery. Just when you thought you'd cast his type, he's throw another curve and leave you spinning.

It reminded Jeff of his own sons – particularly his youngest two. It was lucky he was born with energy and passion and enthusiasm for many things, or his sons would have left him in the dust long ago.

The building was empty this time of night – in fact, Jeff's internal clock told him it was probably more accurately to be called morning.

"Can I ask you something?" Dean said suddenly, turning abruptly down another corridor to find another set of stairs.

"Yes?" Jeff raised an eyebrow.

"What kind of multi billionaire wears jeans and a sweatshirt from Yale with work boots?" Dean asked, looking the older man up and down. "Most of the rich and powerful I met are all Armani and tweed."

Jeff grimaced. "Tweed?" He'd forgotten he was wearing Scott's civvies. "Son, I have never worn tweed in my life. And to answer your question – a comfortable one."

Dean chuckled.

"What is happening with these…ghosts," Jeff said the word awkwardly. Dean's felt a twinge of sympathy for him. It wasn't easy to be thrust into a new, frightening world while you're still standing in the old one. "Can we stop them?"

But still, Dean found himself impressed. People usually just said 'can _you_ stop them'. "There are ways, yeah. But we have to find that kid – Barstom's son. My guess is he doesn't know what he's stepped in."

"Is he in danger?"

"Oh yeah," Dean rubbed his forehead. "It might be too late by now."

Jeff felt the grim, chilling truth behind the words.

"What do we have to do?" Jeff demanded sharply, pushing open the door out of the stairwell.

"Well, first we have to…get…past the armed guards…"

The lobby had sprouted a five man squad, wearing the same dark uniform as before. This time they were armed. "Mr Barstom hasn't finished with you."

Jeff rolled his eyes. "I was finished with him. I have got things to do, people, so you will just step aside." He stepped forward sharply, and for a moment the line actually wavered – Jeff Tracy strode a man who didn't consider the possibility of obstruction. But then reality snapped back and one of them stuck out a burly arm to bar Jeff's way.

"That's it?" Dean raised an eyebrow as Jeff was shoved back. "That's all you got?"

Jeff sighed. "I'm getting old, son. Once you reach my age, the easy way has lots going for it. Look," he turned to the guards. "It's unlawful for you to keep us here,"

"Oh yeah, that'll work," Dean muttered, keeping his eyes on the other guards, who were spreading out to cut off their escape routes.

No one was watching the wide glass doors at the entrance though. They were about a hundred yards, past a gauntlet of security detectors, reception desks and modern art.

"You're all looking down a mile of rough road if you persist," Jeff continued, ignoring Dean. "And…oh, hell son, I just can't stand there and watch this anymore. Never, ever hold your gun sideways in one hand. It works in movies, not in real life," to the guards consternation, Jeff ended up standing up next to the guard and pointing to the grip. "Two hands, son, locked around the grip, one pushing, one pulling. That way no one and wrench the gun away like _this_ and follow through with _this_," the guard got an elbow straight in his face, which probably broke his nose.

Jeff was already spinning, landing a punch on the next one, and then grappling with him.

Another one closed in, but Dean, absently taking out the guard closest to him with a right cross, landed a hard kick on his kneecap, and followed up with a punch to the stomach.

The man Jeff grappled with got in a hard swing, but Jeff Tracy had attended a few bar brawls in his day, and countered with a knee to his stomach, twisting the man's upper body and gyrating his legs out from under him.

Dean had been grabbed from behind. Cursing, he took a punch to the chin from another guy in front of him while he struggled out of the restraining grip. The guard pulled back for a second blow, when a fist flew into his face, hard enough to spin the guy around like a top, and dropping him.

Dean stared. For one thing, his unlikely assistance was wearing a suit that was almost a tuxedo. And white gloves. He looked like he should be carrying a silver tray and offering tea.

But that wasn't nearly as strange as the lady in the dazzlingly ultra-pink outfit stamping down hard on the foot of the last guard, who was aiming a gun at Jeff's unprotected back. The shoes were pink. They were designer. They were couture. They were three inches high at their apex and, notably, tapered to a point. The man screamed as his foot was impaled and then was going down as the blonde neatly twisted his arm out, around and back, slid an elbow neatly into the solar plexus and flicked the guy into a flip that laid him out on the lobby floor. Dean knew about that kind of move. It should have been impossible to do in heels and a skirt. Apparently it…wasn't.

Dean slammed his head back into his restraining guards face and followed through with a mule kick straight back between the legs. Barstom's squad was down, either unconscious or wishing they were.

The blonde straightened and dusted herself off. She grimaced as she looked over her nails. "Honestly Jeff, every time we meet I'm due for another appointment with my manicurist!"

"Sorry, Penny," Jeff winced, rubbing his jaw. He was really too old for this. "Send me the bill, why don't you."

Dean suddenly found himself in another restraint. He twisted away instinctively, but the grip was like steel. He settled dragging up his assailants other arm into a similar twist, making it a stale mate. "Back off, Jeeves," he snarled into that rosy, dignified face.

"Is this miscreant giving you trouble Master Tracy?" the man ignored him, nodding to the mogul instead. A British accent as well? You have got to be kidding me, Dean thought.

"Let him go, Parker," Jeff waved a hand. "He's safe."

There was a tense moment of grip before both sides relaxed their holds and backed off warily. "Does somebody want to fill me in here?" Dean demanded. "Who the hell is butler Bob and the pink princess?"

The woman raised an eyebrow. "Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward, as your service. I see you've met Parker. We're friends of the family; naturally when we heard Jeff's predicament we wasted no time in tracking him down. That only leaves the question of what such a charming gentleman such as yourself is doing here." She seared Dean with a look, measuring, judging and calculating.

"Thanks Penny, you're timing is as impeccable as always," Jeff grinned at her.

Dean gaped. "A transatlantic debutante and her servant sidekick coming to save the day? This is a joke, right?" This was an act, it had to be. No butler was trained for armed combat, no aristocrat for hostile situations.

Lady Penelope gestured to the groaning man on the floor. "You will perhaps notice our cachinnating audience? You sidestepped my question, young man." She added sharply.

Oh, so she noticed. Dean returned the glare with a sneer. "I don't have time for this." He turned to stride out of the lobby.

"Where are you going?" Jeff called to him before he could get far.

"I'm going to find my brother," Dean shrugged as he walked. "Then I'm going to find that kid and see if there isn't still something to save. I've got work to do; I'm not hanging around here."

"We can't either," Lady Penelope added, watching the young man walk away thoughtfully. She turned to Jeff grimly. "Alan has been taken from his room. Gordon and Virgil have gone after him, but I don't know where they are."

"When?" Jeff asked urgently. Then he shook himself and turned after Dean, who was through the lobby doors. "Wait!" He burst through them.

Dean was looking around on the street, growling and muttering to himself. "What?" he grumbled, only giving Jeff half an ear.

"Barstom's son has taken my son," Jeff stalked up to the younger man and grabbed him. "He's taken Alan. Where would he take him? _Why_ would he take him?" He sounded like he wanted to shake Dean.

"Alright, alright," Dean levered himself free. "Don't have an aneurism. Junior's probably not going to kill him."

"_Probably_?"

"The kinds of people who do this sort of thing," Dean amended as Jeff advanced. "They're not…bare handed, do it yourself kind of people, okay? They want the world to be just as they want it. They don't want to work for it or earn it or fight for it or sacrifice for it. They just _want_ it. So, they get other things to do their dirty work. That's how all this works, see? That's why things like this happen. I guarantee this kid won't want to do the deed himself."

"Then who will?" Lady Penelope asked coldly, Parker holding open the door for her.

"Not who, lady. What," Dean looked around, frustrated. "I've got to get back to that school. That's where he found the ghosts in the first place. He's probably got them all stashed there. But first…gimme your phone!" he held out a hand to Lady Penelope.

She raised a perfect eyebrow, unmoved. "What's the magic word?"

Dean's jaw dropped. "Listen lady. There's a pack of violent spirits about to be unleashed on a school, your friend here's son has been kidnapped and _my brother_ has probably walked right into the middle of it because that's what he _does_. You're kidding me, right?"

-------------------------------------------

The stairs had been shaky, but just barely strong enough to be used.

Alan limped around a bend, in the corridor. It had gone quiet. Ominously and unnaturally quiet. The air was too still, and after all that initial shaking everything had gone silent and expectant. Alan could feel it in the air, his adrenaline soaked body and brain was high wired and twitchy. He could _feel_ it. Anger deeper than a canyon, deeper than bedrock, a kind of killing rage that makes honest men murderers and dishonest men serial killers. But the emotion wasn't simple, wasn't pure. Layer after layer of pain shelled it.

It must be the drugs they gave me, Alan thought dizzily. None of what he felt made any sense. Except his own fear. Ghosts, he remembered a bit fuzzily. Hadn't Caleb said something nutty about ghosts and power? He was being watched. But how could anything watch you if it had no eyes?

_There was always someone watching_. Alan knew this. No…more like he felt it in his bones. He didn't really understand it. There was always someone watching, all these feelings hidden deep, peering out of the corners of his eyes. Scott had once called it the Tracy Sense. It meant that he could always find you if you were lost, John could always tell when something had happened, Virgil could tell there was a problem just by looking at it, Gordon could never be snuck up on. Dad got antsy, even before he was told there was trouble, he sort of knew…

It was just a …thing they always did. It was so familiar that it wasn't strange at all. Surely every other family felt the same. It wasn't a mystical thing, it was just a…a human thing.

Now, in this chill darkness Alan wasn't as sure. Until now the watching had been benevolent. But now he could feel the eyes on his back. They held knives in them. He took care to be quiet, he kept his own eyes on every shadowy corner, but why bother? It moved through the walls.

He turned at the sound of whispers. They bounced and rebounced from room to hollow room, like voices down a well. He couldn't tell where they came from. There was an ominous creak, and Alan didn't hesitate – he dashed in the other direction as fast as his injured body would allow, as the roof above him was torn asunder, pulled down…no _pitched_ down in a furious rain. The slats and chunks bounced and shook angrily, and doors started to open and slam in a wave that washed closer to the fleeing Alan...

…who skidded to a teetering halt at the edge of the enormous hole left by the bulldozer through the floor. Arms akimbo, he forced himself to lean back that essential half inch to stop his momentum.

At least, that was the plan. The door had been wrenched off it's hinges and flung with a vengeance down the corridor, punching dents with it's corners and it bounced and spun like a pinball, hitting Alan like a fly swat. Air was driven from the teen's lungs as he was thumped from behind and arced up over the hole. He gave a yell as he was flipped over empty space with the door, almost managing a complete somersault with the spin of the door on his back.

By some miracle of forces, he wasn't shoved into oblivion – the door's violently momentous thrust flung both door and teen right over the hole, rolling him over the far edge and on top of the door at the other side, where Alan lay stunned and aching, the image of the floor gaping under his flying body etched into his memory.

God, his ribs hurt.

There was the sonic shrieking again, and the floor slats shivered underneath him. All around there was the sound of big heavy things falling as the shaking rattled anything loose to fall. The building was being sifted.

It was an animal scream, and Alan's breath came out in a nearly opaque mist and the coldness funnelled in like water. Eaves were ripped off and flung at him. He rolled, painfully, and crawled out of the way.

Something icy grabbed his ankle – Alan could feel each, distinct, numbing finger – and dragged him back towards the hole. Alan kicked and fought, his nails scraping on the floor and he sought some solid purchase. His fingers dropped into a divot left by a wrenched-out bit of floorboard and he latched on the tiny edge with his fingertips, screaming as his body was stretched in the vicious tug of war. But still, he hung on. He wouldn't want to wager his chances of surviving the fall twice.

Slowly, he pulled himself forward. Physical bodies have the edge when it comes to muscle, and the need to survive and to win are great strengtheners.

"Let go of me!" Alan yelled to it, whatever it was. "Whoever you are, _let go_!"

----------------------------------------

Sam was painfully hauling a tub of petrol across the cluttered floor. He'd siphoned out all he could using the glowstick tubes and an empty flour bin. It was a difficult task doing it one handed, and dragging and dumping the sacks of salt was not fun either. It was a long and painstaking task, dipping bits of paper and sacking in to the tub to drape over strategic places on the shelves – there was no way he could lift the tub, not with his bad arm muscles twitching with every haul, sending spears down his broken bones. Sam knew it would be better to go and get Dean, but in his fall and cold muddled mind he knew the sooner this was done, the more of the kids could be saved. Besides, he'd lost his cell phone somewhere, and he didn't feel like trekking around Wharton's looking for another. Dean would find him. Dean always found him.

There were voices – even now they hissed and snapped in Sam's ears. The pressure was turning from a gripping coldness into a vice of ice. It was starting to hurt. He was just leaving a trail of gas back to the bulldozer when the building started to shake.

It was only rough tremors at first – the debris rattled at Sam's feet. Pausing, he looked around warily. There was a rumble, and the shelves started to sway. Sam pressed back against the bulldozer warily, watching the drunken metal swing. His breath was frosting.

Damn, they were on to him.  
Then he heard them – the voices. Voices _above_ him. A cry came out and when Sam looked up he was certain he'd seen movement across the hole. Punctuating the rumbling growl of the shaking walls was the crash and bang of things being thrown in a fury.

That voice had sounded alive. And in trouble. Sam kicked the tub over, spilling gas right up to the bulldozer. The fire could wait for just a minute. He hopped out of one boot and tore off a sock, and stuffed it full of salt. It was an old, well used and over loved sock and little granules were already leaking out of the heel and the toe. It was a crude weapon. If Dean ever found out about this, he'd laugh his ass off for a year and a day. But it was the only one he was fit to use. Tearing off a length of sacking like a ribbon, he fumbled with trying the sock closed with one hand and his teeth.

Armed, he wove towards the basement steps the kids had used earlier, and took them two at a time. Every step jolted his arm, but the shaking was getting much worse now. The still air was suddenly a gale, whistling through the holes in the building like a flute. Sonic screams began to bounce the walls, filling the space with noise.

Sam kept going, leaving a fine trail of salt as he went.

-----------------------------------------

Gordon dismissed the parking lots and raced straight through the cloisters, the SUV bouncing over the steps easily. When they finally reached the half destroyed construction site, they were barred from going any further. Leaving the vehicle next to the earth movers, the brothers exited and picked their way through the site.

Neither of the asked 'why here' or 'where' or 'how do you know'. It was merely instinct that drove them forward.

"Gordon, wait!" Virgil slowed, and headed off course, towards another part of the site, where, still with its lights on, a wildly askew and dented sedan had been abandoned.

"Anyone?" Gordon asked tersely, creeping up.

"No," Virgil circled the car. The trunk was open and Virgil peered tensely inside. Empty.

Gordon looked too, and then, frowning, reaching in and tugged something loose from a nook in the carpet. It was a hospital ID tag.

There were strange noises coming from the ruined building down the hill. Without even looking at each other for confirmation, they headed towards it.

There were kids in front of it in the school's uniform, having an argument.

"We need to get rid of them Caleb. They're going to kill us!"

"We're fine! Fine! We are the ones in control. They can't do _anything_ to us!"

"But…but…they already have. They already _are_. You must feel it. It's not right!"

"Hey!" Virgil bellowed over the yelling voices. Startled, they turned and jumped, backing away with wide eyes. "Where's my brother?" he snarled at them. "Where's Alan? Where is he? _Answer me_!" Virgil's voice could have sliced steel.

One kid, dark haired and green eyed, stepped forward with a diplomat's smile. "Who're you talking about?"

Gordon stepped forward, grabbed the teen by his shirt from and dragged him close so that he was looking straight as Alan's name on the tag. "He's here," Gordon proclaimed flatly, his eyes boring into the other's like diamond augers. "Tell me where he is before a kick seven kinds of crap out of you."

"Let go!" The kid shoved at him, trying to break the iron grip.

There was a yelling voice and a rumble from the dorm, and the whole building shivered. "That was Alan!" Virgil gasped. "He's in there!"

Gordon shoved the kid back hard enough to stumble and then spin to one of the others. "Double E, drop it!"

One of the kids was taken aback. "But Caleb…" he had a little house in his hands. Virgil wondered why.

"Now!" snatching the house from the copper haired boy, Caleb hurled it at the Tracy brothers. It shattered at their feet as they both ducked aside.

They looked between them. There was a figure there, not so much moving as flickering from frame to frame. They only saw it for an instant before the shock picked them up and flung them back in the ground, hard.

They both landed ten feet away, blown apart from one another. As they got up they both glanced at each other knowing that both of them felt the hideous chill and the _angerdeathpainanger_ that filled the air to bursting. The ghost barely had a form, barely had a face, and didn't have a voice at all. It had never had a voice while it was alive, and in death nothing had changed. But there was a shriek, right at the edge of the decibel range, that could be felt more than heard through the bones. Gordon clutched a hand over his collarbone as it vibrated with it, and Virgil groaned and staggered, pressing hands to his temples. The shriek, the cold, and the ghost abruptly vanished.

Virgil took a breath and looked at the kids, who were cowering against the building, shaking with fear and cold and a terrified bravado. One raised a twig like finger and jabbed it. "Kill them!"

"Caleb, no!"

Behind the two brothers, there was the roar of an engine.

---------------------------------------------

"It's pink."

"And?"

"It's _pink_, lady."

"Yes indeed. It has many other features o' interest, too, aside from it's…pinkosity, sir. Perhaps you would prefer to wait for another offer of transport comes along which suits your colour palate?"

"Parker, was that sarcasm?"

"No milady. A simple outlinin' of cost/benefit options, as you would say."

Dean looked like he was seriously considering it, but Jeff had gone through this once – five times – before.

"Dean, _get in the damn car_."

------------------------------------------------

Caleb watched with satisfaction as the headlights on the stolen car lit up, and it roared around like a shark, looking for a target.

"Scatter!" the red head, Alan's brother, yelled to the chestnut haired one on the other side; they both split up, weaving efficiently and athletically up towards the construction site where there were lots of obstacles for a car.

The sedan would eventually be forced to follow only one. Well, that could be taken care of. Reaching around, he tried to grab the model out of Robbie's hands, and was surprised when he felt resistance.

"Stop it, Cay," Robbie demanded, desperation in his tone. "We didn't do this to kill people. Please, let's just get out of here while they're all busy, please!"

Caleb wrenched the model loose from Robbie fingers, his rage incandescent. "What do you think is going to happen to you, you freaking moron, when the dust has settled? What are you going to be if you run? Just another stupid teenager who can't handle it! Not worthy of attention, isn't that what your Dad said? Is that how you want to be? It's better that we finish this. If we finish it, no one will ever forget us. No one will ever ignore us, ever again. Isn't that what you wanted?"

"I'm not sure what I want anymore, Cay," Double E muttered. "But it sure as hell wasn't this."

"This is what _you_ want, Caleb," Nicholas stated, his dark eyes stabbing. "Why do you hate Tracy so much, anyway? He's nobody! Just another ACP geek. It all started with him, Cay, so why…" he trailed off at the expression on Caleb Barstom's face.

"This has _nothing to do _with Tracy," Caleb hissed. "Tracy just got in the way. This is about _me_! I am better than this stupid school, better than this stupid life, and better than Tracy. Do I have to prove it to _you_ too?" He glared hatefully after the two retreating Tracy's that had just hit the construction site.

He raised the model above his head, and said the Words, which his father used time and time again. Then he said. "Bring them all out of the ground! All of them! Let's see what they do against _my_ army! Go!" He smashed the model on the ground, and the air shook with the scream of the spirit, unleashed but still chained. It swirled into the ground, which started to tremble.

"Caleb," Nicholas was pallid. "What did you _do_?"

Caleb ignored them. He still glared after the two older Tracy's. He was an intelligent boy, intelligent enough to be in the ACP's alone, intelligent enough to learn magic via proxy. He didn't like things in the world that he did not understand. And he did not understand them.

_They came for him_, Caleb thought furiously, angered by his own bewilderment. _They walked into the unknown for him. They were angry for him, ready to fight for him. Why? __**Why?**_

Caleb had siblings – only half siblings, his father was a much married man – he had nine all told. He barely ever saw them. Mostly, the mother's got custody, and the women all pretty much washed their hands of Walter Barstom the Second afterwards; he had that effect on people. He might see them on occasion at a Christmas or a Thanksgiving, or at random times when they came looking for money or references, but he was a virtual stranger to them, as they were to him. He was damn sure none of them would have chased him down in the dead of night to face unknown assailants in order to rescue him. But these two had. It stuck a nerve in Caleb so deep and so hurtful that his wrath rose up to take control.

"Stay here, and make sure they finish the job or the next people they are going after are _you_," he snarled to the cowering classmates. Then he turned, and disappeared into the hole in the dorm, sickened with rage.

He had to know. He had ton know what it was that Tracy was able to do, that Caleb could only dream. He hated it when anyone knew better than him.

On the hill, the tremor travelled under foot. And the dead started to rise….

----------------------------------------------

Sam reached the first floor, which was easy. The basement steps were still intact. However, reaching the upper storey proven to be more harrowing. The stairs were shaky and half falling to bits. He was forced to sidle and hop his way up them warily, feeling them shift under his feet. His injured arm was jolted with every step.

But was long as he kept moving, he could do it. Chunks of debris falling marked his sprint up it, and onto the landing. The place was gloomy and pitch dark, but as the end of the hall he could just make out a struggling figure…halfway out over the edge of the enormous hole in the floor. It was Alan Tracy.

"Hang on!" Sam yelled., and hesitated. How was _he _supposed to get to the other side of the hole? It couldn't be jumped and it spanned the width of the hall. Then he shook himself, and stepped into the nearest open door. There it was, a tunnel driven straight through the walls by an angry ghost with a bulldozer. Clambering over hurdles of crushed beds and bits of partition, Sam fought his way towards the struggling teen at the other side of the dorm. Picking a door that seemed about right, he wrenched it open and there was Alan, clawing the floor as a shadowy and flickering shape clawed at him. It seemed to be, now close, wearing a blue coat uniform that was vintage and strange in this now modern building. Sam leapt from the doorway and swung the sock like a bullroarer. It hit _something_, although it would be hard to describe the impact. The figure was both solid and insubstantial by degrees. Salt showered out, and the spirit shrieked and vanished. Alan suddenly shot forward as the pulling abruptly ceased.

He groaned and lay still for a moment.

"Hey, are you okay?" Sam asked worriedly.

"I think so," Alan gasped. Heaving himself to his feet, he was forced to grip Sam's one uninjured arm in order to balance. His injured ankle was in a walking cast, but that still didn't mean he could go stomping around on it. His ribs were on fire, his head felt like it was cracked. "I…think I was nearly just killed by a ghost." He added, trying to make sense of it himself. He stared at his hands, which were covered in splinters and scratches, the nails were torn and broken.

"Yeah. You were," Sam replied with sympathy. "Don't worry. You get used to it."

Alan cracked a slight smile. "Right. It opened his eyes to really look at his saviour. "I remember you. From the hospital…Sam, right? Does this come under your insurance investigator hazard pay, or something?" Alan raised an eyebrow.

"Worse," Sam shrugged. "My real job doesn't pay at all. Sorry I had to lie, it's just most people wouldn't _believe_ the truth anyway."

"Yeah," Alan nodded, thinking of IR. No one would ever believe him about that, either. "What do you really do?"

"You ever seen _Ghostbusters_?" Sam grinned.

"No way. Really?" Alan nearly chuckled. "Cool job. Bet they didn't have that one down on Career Day."

Overhead, the lights came on, and flickered off, and glowed again. They strobed on and off all down the hall, like a disco.

"We'd better get out of here," Sam murmured. "Can you walk?" He looked at his sock, and there wasn't enough salt left even for a respectable salt circle.

"Not much choice," Alan grimaced.

Overhead, the lights blazed and exploded. A wave of pops followed as they went out all along the wall, followed by tremors. The anger seemed to steep into the air, thickening like a brew. "Tracy!" yelled a voice. There were rattling footsteps stumbling up the stairs.

"Caleb?" Alan said, puzzled.

Caleb's silhouetted form appeared at the other end of the hall. "There he is! Get him! _Bring him to me!_" The doors started to open and slam, open and slam, and Sam and Alan were forced to duck as a beam came whirring out of the murk. More debris was gearing to follow.

"Come on!" Sam got an arm around Alan shoulders and helped him hobble as fast as he could in the opposite direction. "Is there any other way out?"

Alan grimaced as his aching body was put through it's paces. "Uh…from up here…" he shook his pounding head. "Up here…yeah. This way. The roof stairs."

Sam shoved him against a wall as something hard and fast as a bullet shot past. Tiny pings and thumps followed as the flock of nails skipped and seared their way down the hall like bullets from a gatling gun. The pair ran on.

-----------------------------------------

John and Dr Yoong arrived next, to bedlam. Lights were flickering off and on in the dorm, but in the foreground there was movement like a pile of snakes. There were figures wandering among the hillock, among the debris, _through_ the debris like…well ghosts.

"What the _hell_…" Dr Yoong stared at it. He parked his car at the top of the hill, with a view of the vista of destruction below.

"Don't look at me," John breathed. He got out of the car, and headed towards it. "Looks like you lose, doc."

A figure came sprinting up out of the night. It was Virgil, sweating even though it was a cold night. Beyond him, down nearer to the dorms, there was another, more substantial figure, being chased by a glowing pair of headlights from a demolition derby car that was banging and crashing through the site, intent on its prey.

"John!" Virgil yelled, not even pausing in his sprint. "Alan's in the dorm! Get to the dorm!" The chestnut haired Tracy heaved himself up onto a steam roller and started hitting buttons on it. It sprang to life with a roar, and he pushed it down the hill at high speed, crushing everything in way beneath it.

The sprinting figure, Gordon, turned and headed up the hill, right into the steam rollers headlights. In one lithe, terminal move he sprang away and left, leaving Virgil an unobstructed path to the roaring car. There was a crash and then a sound like a thousand cans being crumpled and then smashed on crushed glass, the strangled and brief honk of a dying horn, and a muffled and potent blast as the tyres popped under the weight of the roller, which rolled over the mere car like a tank.

Dr Yoong cursed virulently and grabbed his black bag from the back seat, heading into the disaster zone without hesitation. John was cursing to. He rounded the car, got into the driver's seat, and started it up again. The spirits, even more numerous now, watched him.

Not just watched. A boy, wearing the Wharton's school uniform, had made his way up through the hill, running through the ghost infested site like a person running away from the rain, bowed and covering his head with his arms. He pointed on shaking arm at John, and mouthed something John couldn't hear.

John put the car into gear, watching the kid warily. He sure as hell wasn't going to run him over. He was only Alan's age. Lights lit up beside him.

Machines – _big_ machines – all around John were suddenly alive. For a given value of alive. They were on, and roaring, and moving. They were encircling him.

-----------------------------------------------

In the dorm, the two of them had reached the roof stairs and headed upwards, the building groaning and swaying as they went.

Caleb was following.

------------------------------------------------

"You've got to the kidding me," Dean gasped, extremely displeased. "_You're kidding me_!" His hands were damp, white knuckled vices around his armrests, which creaked under the considerable pressure.

"Just relax, son. _Relax_. Breathe. We'll be there soon," Jeff tried to keep the younger man calm, and judging from the rigid posture he wasn't having much luck.

"Sedative?" Lady Penelope asked, grinning slightly. "Our staff are trained to deal with bad fliers."

Jeff shot her a look. The Lady's sense of humour could be quite strange at times.

"Shut up," Dean grunted. It helped if he thought of himself in a car. Just a car. A _pink_ car, if you could believe that. What a perfectly good waste of a car. Everyone knew cars didn't fly. They were noted for it. Anything that could lift higher than ten feet and stay there was not a car. But this _was_ a car. It _was_, damn it!

"Who in the _hell_ owns a _flying car_?" Dean ground out through gritted teeth, his eyes squeezed shut. "Lady, two words – Private Jet. You're ritzy enough for it. You shouldn't do this to an innocent car. Not even…a _pink_ one." He risked a peek through one slitted eye. Yep, the ground was still _down there_. He snapped the eye shut again with an uncertain noise in the back of his throat. Flying. Why was it always flying?

"Son, I need you to calm down," Jeff put a hand on Dean's soothingly. "Take a deep breath. Stay calm. Keep breathing. Tell me what I'm up against here. Tell me what I have to do."

Right, the ghosts, right. Dean cursed Jeff in his mind, cursed the man for doing exactly what his own father would have done, which was give him something to talk about, something to control. Only his Dad was allowed to know the trick, and Dean resented it that Jeff Tracy could figure it out. He resented that he was so damn grateful.

"Ghosts," he started, the words coming in spurts, like his breathing. "Undead spirits. Angry undead spirits. They're all over that damn hill, all over the dorm. It was cemetery for kids who got starved and beaten to death in the school."

"Wharton's?" Lady Penelope's eyebrows rose.

"No! The last school. The old one. Some two hundred year old religious juvie. Lots of dead kids. Lots of forgotten kids." Abused, starved and left behind, like they weren't worth anything at all. Damn if that didn't piss Dean off. "They hung around quiet until someone started tearing their resting place to bits. And then…this kid, whoever he is…"

"Starts using them," Jeff finished. "Like his father does." There was a hint of a question there.

"Yeah," Dean was relaxing ever so slightly. "Like that. Except there are a _lot_ of spirits. Kid bit off more that he could chew. He gave them the power to..ugh," he'd looked out the window again. "The power to, I dunno, be able to move stuff, and once they had that they could do _anything_."

"Why my son? Why Alan?" Jeff asked. "Alan has a certain genius for trouble, but he doesn't _hurt_ anyone. He gets along with everyone – even the teachers who get fed up with him say he makes them laugh."

Dean's lips twitched. That sounded familiar. "I don't know. Teenage grudge? Everybody has dark desires. Most people can't or won't do anything with 'em. The ghosts would, though."

"I though you said this boy had lost control?" Lady Penelope frowned.

"No, no, it's like…" Dean desperately tried to think past his pounding heartbeat. "Like poker. Right? The ghost is playing a hand, but this kid, whatshisname, is dealing the cards. There's a lot of nastiness inside people at the end of the day. Trust me, I know. You can resent somebody and like them at the same time. You should have seen Sam with our Dad."

"You are brothers?" Lady Penelope asked, pushing for information.

"Yeah. Gotta problem?" Dean growled. He shifted uncomfortably as he felt the…the car bank slightly.

"We're coming up on Wharton's, milady," Parker called from the front.

"The parking lot, I think, Parker," the Lady ordered. "No need to draw attention."

"Yes milady."

Dean was the first out of the car as soon as it touched the ground. He felt like kissing that asphalt. It had been a long night. When the roaring in his ears faded, he was aware of loud sounds of total chaos coming from beyond the cloisters, where the ruined dorm stood. "Damn."

He moved, weaving ever so slightly, towards his own precious car, who was getting a double wax job as soon as this mess was over our of sheer gratitude that it didn't and would never fly. He dug around in his pockets for the spare key hidden in the lining. You always needed a spare in his job. It was too easy to lose keys. He popped the trunk with it, and lifted the false lid.

"What are you doing?" Jeff asked. His body was restless, like a stallion itching for a run. He could hear the noises too. "We have to go."

"We can't just walk in there," Dean snapped, looking over the inventory. "These things can and will kill. You ever used a shotgun?"

Jeff came with him to look at the trunk. He whistled. "Hot damn, son. And I was raised on a farm in Kansas. What do _you_ think?"

Dean pressed one into the mogul hands. "Okay, I don't have time for a full training course so I'll just give you the abridged version. Fire and salt. That's the quickest, easiest, cheapest way to get rid of spirits. This," he held up a shell. "Is rock salt. It'll scatter them pretty damn quick but it won't kill them outright, so watch it. Just point and fire, anyplace is a vital place. And don't worry if there's someone living behind them, it won't kill people. I can guarantee you that. Don't hesitate, for Christ's sake. They're fast and they can vanish themselves and be behind you quicker than you can blink and you can't fight them bare knuckled. If you find the kid, try to knock him out. He can't give orders if he's down. Okay? How about you Jeeves, or are you only good for driving?" he asked Parker.

The impeccable butler leaned down and loaded a gun with hands like a blur. "I think I shall acquit myself well with this, sir," he replied levelly. He had loaded the weapon faster than even Dean could do.

"Right," Dean said, looking at him suspiciously. "And you?" he turned to Lady Penelope.

"Care to make a wager on who will hit the most targets?" she challenged, reaching for a .45 and clicking the safety off without hesitation. She gripped it like a pro.

"Some other time, lady," Dean pulled a red canister, before slamming the lid closed.

"Gas?" Jeff asked, loading shells.

"Yep. We may need to burn something," Dean propped the gun over one shoulder and headed off at a fast clip. "It's one of the pleasures of my job."

-----------------------------------------------

John was in trouble as he raced the car away from the earth movers. One of them sideswiped him and nearly rolled him, but he accelerated onwards. It was hard going. He kept having to swerve around the flickering shadows, because driving through them was not an experience he wanted to repeat. The cold seemed to vice around his heart.

The earth movers swooped and spiralled around him. They weren't as agile as the sedan, but one good hit was all it would take. Reversing abruptly, he angled the other way, temporarily getting out of the closing circle of death.

Further down the hill, Gordon was panting, and looking at the wreckage of the car. The steamroller seemed to be jammed on top of it, and Virgil was climbing down out of the cab.

"Whoohoo, Virgil!" Gordon crowed.

"I always wanted to do that," Virgil grinned, adrenaline high. "Are you okay?"

"That would be my line," Dr Yoong hurried up. "Although the driver of the car worries me more." The doctor tried to peer into the crushed front section of the car. "There's no one in there. Did you know there was no one in there?"

"I don't crush occupied cars, doc," Virgil went over to help Gordon to his feet.

"I don't suppose either of you can explain this to me?" Dr Yoong's voice was weary.

"Nope," Virgil shook his head. "Gordo, this is Dr Yoong, Alan's doctor. Doc, this in Gordon."

"Another Tracy," Dr Yoong sighed. "I'm doomed, aren't I? Five of you together is enough disaster to end the world."

Gordon grinned at him in a particularly evil way.

But suddenly they were all flung back in opposite directions, the cold nearly spearing them through. There were three hard thumps as they hit the ground. All around them, spirits walked and watched. They wore pantaloons, stockings and long coats of blue – ancient uniforms that had been stripped from them in death and given to others. In those days, wearing dead men's clothes was a necessity. There must be a hundred of them now, awake and angry, bewildered by this place and this age. The ground shook like an earthquake, spouts of earth actually shooting up from long abandoned grave sites. There were no bodies now. Just what was left when the bones were gone.

"Holy crap," Gordon coughed, heaving himself up. "What are they?"

"_Get them! Get them!_" a student, pointing a finger, was running past them. The spirits started to head for them, fast forwarding through steps then slowing jerkily, vanishing and reappearing. They were pale faced; their eyes were dead and cold. Their lips moved, but their voices were barely audible, even together. But the pressure seemed to clamp around the living people, vibrating their bones and rattling their hearts. The kid who'd set the ghosts on them even groaned, clutching his head and staggering off into the night. The ghosts began to follow him.

"Hey, wait!" Gordon leapt after him.

"Gordon!" Virgil turned at the sound of a resounding crash further up. "Shit. John!" The car was being pushed sideways by a bulldozer and was about to be sandwiched into a small crane. Cursing Virgil headed up there. Dr Yoong followed him, knowing he'd be needed soon.

------------------------------------------

The air was cold up on the roof. As cold as it had been the night Alan had climbed onto it that first time. Sam gave him a boost up on to the top and followed.

It was all snow up here, pristine and flat, only the whole gaping over the top of the rood broke the slanted plateaus.  
"Now what?" Sam panted.

"Across. The old gym roof. And down," Alan gasped. "Onto the east wall. Everyone who breaks curfew uses it."

"Okay," Sam got one of Alan's arms around him and got his uninjured one around Alan's shoulders. "We're going to have to skirt around the hole, and go pretty close to the edge. We'll take it slow as we can." They made their way forward across the slanted roof, focusing on not slipping.

The snow exploded ahead of them, and a ghost was standing there, it's blue coat still in the wind. It flickered closer. Sam backed up slightly, taking Alan with him. There was another one behind them.

"Just a minute, Tracy," Caleb hauled himself out onto the roof.

"Caleb!" Alan yelled, losing his temper. "You idiot! Hasn't this gone far enough? What do you _want_? What was so damn terrible and hard about your life that you need to take your problems out on _me_?"

"What make _you_ so special, Tracy!" Caleb bellowed back.

Around him, there was an echo…_what makes you so special_…

"Why do _you_ get all the breaks!" …_all the breaks_… "Why do _you_ get all the praise?"…_praise_… "There is nothing you do that I don't do!" ..._I don't do_…

Sam watched the ghosts with a mounting sense of panic. They were drawn here. Drawn to Caleb and Caleb's anger, which was so very similar to theirs. It was the anger of the forgotten, the unloved, the neglected; people written off before they even started, tripped before they'd even gotten a chance to run, predestined for nothing because they were noticed not at all. They were drifting up the sides of the building, grouping in a mass of white, pallid faces, converging.

"Caleb," Sam said urgently. "Caleb, you've got to stop this. You're not in control, do you understand? You think you use them but in the end they're really using you. You've got to calm down, Caleb. You're _feeding_ them!"

"Shut up! They do what _I_ want." …_I want_… "Only what I want!"…_I want_… "I've got more power in me than you ever dreamed Tracy. I'm better than you!" …_better_… "Stronger than you!"…_stronger_…. "I don't need any stupid family to make my life worthwhile!" …_family…family…family…_

"_I_ do," Alan replied flatly. "That's what this is about, isn't it? I have a family, and you don't. Not really. You don't know anything about people that'll look out for you without asking why. That'll put up with you and take care of you and forgive you and help you without having to be paid, or ordered, or even asked. You don't know anything about people who want to be around you just for _you_. No strings attracted. No expectations. No reward. Just _you_. That's what it was. That's _all_ it was!" Alan was shaking with rage. "You didn't have to do this, Caleb! Okay, so your Dad sucks. Big deal! You had friends and popularity and smarts and talent! People looked up to you! _Ivan_ looked up to you! If you'd told him that you'd hung the sun in the sky he'd have believed you! And you did that to him! If that's the kind of person you really are, then you don't deserve a family and no family would deserve you!"

Caleb's fist knocked Alan into Sam, felling them and making them both slip perilously close to the hole. And also slide a few inches down the roof. "Shut up!" he screamed. "I deserve everything I want! I'm good enough! I'm strong enough!" …_strong enough_…. "And soon you won't have a family anyway! Your brothers are down there," he jerked a thumb back at the chaos below. "Your brothers came looking for you. They'll never survive what I sent after them!" …_never survive_…

"You _bastard_!" Alan groaned, trying to get his legs under him on the uneven ground. The snow had made him go numb.

"Stop, Caleb!" Sam yelled, breaking in suddenly. "Stop! They're gathering in on you! Can't you see them? They're all around you! You have to stop!"

"You mean that's not supposed to happen?" Alan hissed quietly, staring at the sudden crowd on the rooftop.

"No! This is bad. They're going to kill him eventually. And us, if we don't get out of here!" Sam whispered back urgently.

"You're not better than me," …._better than me_… "No one is better than me!" Caleb proclaimed, standing tall…._no one is_…

"Kill! Kill them all!"

_Kill_…

The spirits seemed to run together like melting silver. Many hands grabbed Caleb, and before the shocked teen could even cry out, they pitched him back over the roof steeple and down the other side.

Then, to Sam's complete and utter bewilderment, Alan was up in one leaping step over the steeple, and had dived after him.

------------------------------------------------

Virgil leapt aboard the machine that was pushing John's car, and wrenched the wheel sideways. It was like trying to move it through a decade of rust, just he forced it around, and the machine careered away, leaving the car before it could smash into the crane.

Virgil fought and struggled with the wheel at tried to wrench itself out of his control. The machine wavered this way and that at they battled. Eventually, he reached down, and hit the emergency fuel drain, and then abandoned bulldozer, rolling off it while the twisting and turning machine trundled on, leaving a trail of gas behind it.

John, meanwhile, was being freed from his warped seatbelt by Dr Yoong by means of a sharp pair of Metzenbaum scissors. Behind them, lights lit up as one of the other haunted machines suddenly geared up for ramming. John snatched up a length of wood, jammed it to the accelerator and released the brake. He and the doctor leapt aside as the car shot forward, the earthmover following it doggedly as it sped off into the night, driverless.

"My car," Dr Yoong said, his voice more reflective than anything else. "I liked that car, John."

"I think you like your body better, doc," John replied, getting up again.

Dr Yoong looked around. "Well, if you can't beat 'em…"

"What?"

Dr Yoong headed for another earthmover, one very similar to the one that had trashed the dorm, and clambered on. Mystified, John followed him, and clambered on as well. The doctor wedged his black bag into a safe spot, while John took up a perch just behind the cab chair. Yoong started flicking likely looking switches, until the engine roared to life, and started to roll down the slope.

"Doc?" John broke in uneasily. "Do you know how to drive this thing?"

"Uh…no."

--------------------------------------------

Gordon followed the fleeing teen through the last few standing frames in the site, dodging cold shadows wherever he went. They didn't seem interested in him, yet.  
There _were_ interested in the kid though. They seem to be crowding around him.

"No…stop, _please_…" the kid moaned. He had copper hair that shone in the weird light. "Please…I'm not bad…please…I didn't mean for this to happen, please…."

They were almost crushing him, there were so many around. "Hey!" Gordon yelled.

"_Help me_!" The kid screamed.

Gordon had a piece of wood frame in his hands and was swinging it without thought. It passed through the nearest one like smoke, stopped, and swung back, catching Gordon across the throat. It pinned him to a wood stanchion, and he tried to wrench off the breath stealing weight.

The sound of gunfire ripped through the air, and the weight was gone. Gasping, Gordon massaged his bruised neck, as the Calvary came closer. Blinking, he saw Lady P and Parker brandishing serious weaponry, muzzle flashes sizzling in the air.

There was another flash, and his Dad and some other guy was there, shotguns blazing.

"Gordon! Are you okay?" Jeff yelled swinging his shotgun and blasting away another attacking spirit to close to his son.

"Hey, you! Knock the kid out!" the other guy with the shotgun yelled. "He's calling them. Knock him out!" They were not as close as Gordon.

"Do it!" Jeff added, knowing that Gordon wouldn't take orders from a stranger.

Gordon charged through the ranks of spirits, raised a fist, and clocked the teen hard across the face. It wasn't first time he'd had to subdue even as he saved. The kid sank to the ground with a moan, out cold. The ghosts vanished.

"Nice shot," the shotgun guy grinned, coming closer. "That should quiet them down for a while."

"Just him, and not the others?" Gordon asked tersely, treating the stranger with wary trust.

"Others?"

"There were five of them," Gordon replied, rubbing his neck again.

"Five. Crap. We're going to have to get them all out of the picture," the guy cursed.

"Dad, Alan's in the dorm," Gordon broke in urgently. "I think he's being chased. He's in the dorm."

Jeff grimly handed the shotgun over. "They're ghosts, son. Find those other boys, and lay them out. Gently as you can, but it's the only way to stop them getting killed. Salt stops them. Move. We'll get Alan. Penny and Parker will go with you."

"Okay," Gordon absorbed this easily enough.

"You and I," Jeff turned to Dean. "Are heading for the dorm."

--------------------------------------------------

Virgil ducked and dodged through debris as the other earthmover chased him down. It had stopped following the doctor's car and done an about face, and was now harrying him through the worst of the damage. He leapt and wove, and while he had to dodge, the machine merely rolled over. Around him, lines of ghosts seemed to gather.

There was a kid there, dark haired and dark eyed, pointing at the ghosts. "Stop him! Stop…!" He was lifted up like he was on wires, making choking sounds. The host of spirits circled him, blue uniforms flickering in and out of light and darkness. The earthmover was right on Virgil's back, collecting a pile of earth and debris before it. Virgil zigged, and should have zagged, because heading for him now at perpendicular angles was a mobile lifting platform, and he was pincered between the two with utterly no time to escape and nowhere to escape to. He froze momentarily in a double pool of headlights and…

…fire rained from the sky. Holes the size of Virgil's fist were punched through metal and circuitry and the platform toppled over. Another line of ammunition descended, scything through the earthmover while Virgil hit the deck, causing it to swerve wildly and great gust of flame spewing from it's punctured gas tanks. It rumbled on down the hill, leaving trail of flame behind it. A lot more gas had been spilled by the drained machine that Virgil had piloted before, and the trails were soon caught and burning, spreading in strange lines and patterns.

And above all this noise, there was the whine of some very familiar engines. Thunderbird One descended out of the clouds.

Near to Virgil, the dark haired Nicholas lay, unconscious but alive.

----------------------------------------------------

Gordon meanwhile was trekking towards the bulldozer that John and the doctor had commandeered. In front of them were rows upon rows of spirits ranked up, and behind them a cowering teen, who was trying to stop them and to escape at the same time. The machine was actually being tilted up off its front tread by the sheer volume of the pressure being exerted on it. The cab windows had shattered in and the machine was slowing gaining dents and crumple marks as it was slowly crushed beneath the spiritual weight. John watched worriedly as the four rods holding up the cabin roof slowly bent inwards, the roof slowly descending as if it were beneath a great weight. The nose of the machine was already well off the ground, the treads turning futilely.

The lights dimmed as the headlights were popped. Cringing, John was about to suggest escape.

And then there was gunfire.

Clearing a path, the bulldozer was dropped as spirits were discorporated by salt rounds, and the terrible pressure ceased. Lady Penelope and Parker set up sentry and back guard for the bulldozer as it began its slow journey again. Gordon dove through the ranks of spirits that thickened and froze the very air. He had practice holding his breath. Turning his borrowed weapon, he caught Robbie a crack against the temple as softly as was possible, and snagged the teen before he could fall down. The ghosts wavered and vanished, leaving a clear path.

It trundled closer to the dorm.

Gordon looked up and grinned to see the familiar shape hovering in the air. Nothing bad could happen, not as long as it, and its pilot, was watching over you. One of it's spotlights left Gordon, traced a line to the dorm, and drew Gordon eyes to the roof. Scott often had to do this in rescues, in order to show people on the ground what could only be seen from the air.

Gordon saw what Scott saw, and his grin vanished. "Oh my God!"

He leapt onto the bulldozer at it rumbled forwards, heralded by the sounds of gunshots.

-------------------------------------------------------

Alan clung to a gable with mere fingertips. He'd wedged his injured foot into a decorative cornice, and it was screaming. The stitches in his arm had been pulled as the weight of Caleb on the end of his arm ripped them loose. Caleb was kicking screaming at the hands that hung off him, yanked at him and at Alan.

"Stop it! Let go! Let _go_!" the boy yelled. He looked up into the eyes of his saviour, and was bewildered by what he saw.

"Hang on!" Alan yelled, willing his holds in deeper. If he relaxed for a second, they would both go over.

"Why?" Caleb whispered.

"What kind of person do you think I am? Do you think I would just let you die just because it's convenient, just because it's _easy_? Life isn't easy, it isn't fair, no one is taking tallies to make sure only the guilty and the bad get hurt! Deal with it! The only thing you can do," Alan wrenched the words out. "Is do the right thing here and now. My Dad taught me that. I'm not letting him down!" He groaned at the weight stretched him. Spectral hands were tugging at his grips. His frostbitten hands finally slipped…  
Sam snatched at him with his good hand, using his weight over the gable as an anchor. It wasn't a permanent solution, but they would take what they could get. "Hang on, I've got you!" He yelled down to the pair. Not for long, he added in his head, but I've got you. His broken arm was wedged beneath him, and was voicing is displeasure. Loudly. Greyness crept into the edges of his vision. He looked up blearily into the eyes of a ghost – many ghosts – who were watching without emotion or thought. "Please let go. Please. I know how angry you are, I know you were shoved aside and stuck in the ground and forgotten. Please, these kids didn't do it to you. They're just like you are. _Please_. You're not evil. I know you were trying to make it, even though others kept cutting you down. Just…please…" his grip was slipping, it was…

A blast of salt took out two of the ghosts on one side, and a second one took out the ghost trying to break Alan's grasp on Sam's hand.

"_Alan!_"

"Sam, are you up there?"

"Dean?" Sam croaked, almost inaudible.

From below, the bulldozer was trundling closer.

--------------------------------------------------

Virgil sprinted to keep up with the bulldozer, his eyes following the line of Thunderbird One's search beams. He nodded to Parker who was back walking over the bulldozer's trail and hopped up to clamber next to the half crushed cab and Gordon.

Ahead, Jeff was firing up at the spirits, taking out those close to the roof edge, trying to claw at Alan. Dean had torn a strip of his shirt and was making a Molotov cocktail out of the gas canister. Jeff darted inside the building as the bulldozer pulled up. Virgil reached to around the doctor to activate the scoop controls.

Jeff re-emerged, dragging a mattress. Gordon clambered off the machine, handed the shotgun to Lady Penelope as he went past (who then promptly picked four more ghosts off with crack accuracy), and helped drag the half waterlogged thing into the scoop, which slowly ascended. Jeff climbed in after it, still armed. Dean took a vault off one tread, and also went into the rising thing. John, directing the doctor, carefully angled the machine as close to the building as they could go. Above, Scott watched, gripping the controls with white knuckles.

Alan wasn't aware of any of this. He was in too much pain. Lights were flashing in front of his eyes and his whole body was one line of fire. "Stop it!" he hissed to the spirits as they converged in a mass attack. "Get _back_. Back!" It might have just been a trick of the light from the Thunderbird, but his eyes seemed to glow. So did the other Tracy's. Just for an instant, every Tracy just barely glowed. No one noticed. But the spirits suddenly pulled back, and were repelled a wide circle away from the three hanging off the roof.

Caleb slipped and landed in the bulldozer scoop with a hard thump. Jeff shot upwards at the ghosts again, who were descending once more. "Alan! Jump!"

Alan dropped, unable to hold on anymore. Jeff caught him. He gripped him tight to his chest, curled up around him, here he was _safesafesafe_.

Dean jumped up, snapped his hands around a gutter, and chinned athletically onto the rooftop. "Sammy!"

"Dean," Sam groaned, face down across the gable. He was turned over gently. "Dean, the ghosts…"

"You noticed, huh?" Dean grinned a truly relieved grin. Sam was white faced, injured, but very, very alive. That was the main thing. "Well spotted. Pretty soon you'll be ready to hunt all on your own."

"No…basement….ghost traps…" Sam tried to focus.

"Basement?" Dean asked. "Hang on." He heaved Sam up, and took him to the edge. "Look Sammy, there's too many ghosts and too much happening to do this gently. It's going to be a little bit a drop, okay buddy? Feet first and don't land on the arm, okay? I'll be down in a minute."

"Promise?" Sam asked, hunched over and shivering with shock.

"You got it. Ready?" He gently made sure Sam was aimed right, and dropped him into the padded scoop. He crumpled at the knees into the mattress, but managed to keep from rolling onto his injured arm, instead canting onto his good one onto the side of the scoop.

"Atta boy, Sammy. Hey! Throw up the gas!" he yelled down. Jeff freed a hand from his son, and chucked it up.

Dean got out his lighter. Okay. Fully prepared to push through any resistance, he was suddenly thrown down, the canister wrenched from him and thrown away, and he himself pushed back off the roof.

There was one wild moment of drop before he hit the scoop, landing across most of the others in a chorus of groans and swears. The ghosts knew what he was up to, and didn't like it.

"Damn," Dean cursed, trying to right himself without kicking anyone too much. "We gotta put a torch to it!"

Jeff fumbled for his cell phone. "Hang on, son, hang on. Not much long now, hang on," he murmured to the semi-conscious Alan. He hit a number on speed dial.

Caleb watched them both, his expression unfathomable.

---------------------------------------------------------

Scott picked his phone on the first ring. "Whoever this is, it better be good!"

"_Scotty, when we're clear, use incendiaries on the building_," his Dad's orders filtered through a mass of static.

"Dad? Are you okay? Is Alan okay? What the hell are those…things?"

"_No time. Do it!_"

"FAB," Scott snapped the phone closed and punched buttons on his console drawing back for a properfiring line. Below him, the hill burned, and fleeing spirits headed for the building.

----------------------------------------------------

The bulldozer sputtered and faltered, it's lights flickering on and off. Frost started forming on the metal.

"I don't think they're going to let us leave," John said anxiously. Gordon was helping Parker and Lady Penelope aboard. It was getting quite crowded.

"Who cares what they want?" Virgil said furiously, punching button around the good doctor, who was cursing quietly under his breath.

Up above, the others were forming pretty much the same conclusion. "Damn, damn damn, damn!" Dean snarled, fumbling more shots into the shotgun.

"Too many," Sam whispered, clutching his head.

"Dammit! They're _your _dead friends, kid!" Dean glared at Caleb. "Get rid of them. Tell them to leave, or something!"

"I can't," Caleb spoke dully. "They don't listen to me anymore. I can't make them do anything. I can't do anything." He looked over at Alan and Jeff again. Jeff was rocking his son soothingly, stroking his hair, trying to warm him.

"There must be something, son," Jeff spoke. "Please. You called them. You're responsible for them. There must be something you can do to help."

"Son," Caleb repeated bleakly. Then he shrugged to himself, stood up sluggishly, and withdrew a folded piece of paper from his breast picket. It had sat close to his heart. "Tell Ivan I'm sorry. If he wakes up."

"Caleb?" Alan mumbled. "What're you doing? Caleb?"

"Thanks for saving me, Alan," he tilted his face up into the glowing host above. "Take them. Take them home!" He tore the paper in half, pieces of the carefully drawn _kekkai_ drifted down into the scoop. The spirits descended. Dean lunged. Jeff lunged. But they weren't fast enough.

They picked Caleb up, spinning him like top through the swirling snow, up higher and higher. They swirled around him and there was a sense of _lookseenoticeme_ wavering in the air all around. The bulldozer roared back to life, shot back, and rolled away towards the cloisters at breakneck speed, while the snow spun and whirled higher and higher around the dorm. They pitched the boy down near the construction site, hard and fast out of the sky.

"_Caleb_!"

They rolled beyond the cloisters and out of view. There was a crowd of uniformed ghosts flickering in the dark on the roof, on the grounds. They looked upwards, as if listening, as if waiting.

Scott took aim, and fired.

White fire blazed forth, the shots reaching all the way to the salt strewn basement. One hit the bulldozer there dead on, but it was one of many. The building vanished beneath the billowing, burning flames.

The racing ahead of the flames, made up of many arms and hands and faces was a cloud of silver black, rushing out of every window, every door, even the hole left by the Mole, streaming out in all directions, carried on a sonic scream up and out, until it engulfed Wharton's like a fog, and drowned Thunderbird One in the sky, blotting out fire, snow and sky.

Everything was black. And then…it faded, into fire, and smoke and everyday light. And the world seemed normal again.

----------------------------------------------------


	7. Epilogue

Disclaimer: Thunderbirds in the Anderson's property, and Supernatural is Eric Kripke's. This is non profit, and just for fun.

Warnings: Supernatural and adult themes, mild coarse language

Authors Reflections: Wahooo, another one done! Writing this fic was pure pleasure – believe it or not, I had the words to this ending a long time ago, and it was such a thrill to finally put them to paper. I actually had this scene in my head before I even wrote it. Freaky, huh?

I want to thank all my loyal and extremely kind reviewers who gave me so many wonderful comments and encouragement. I always look forward to getting feedback, and what I got was phenomenal. I hope this fic gave you as much pleasure in reading as it did to me in writing.

Thank you, thank you, thank you. – Ryuuza Kochou

--------------------------------------------------

Epilogue

--------------------------------------------------

_The voices whispered 'can you see me?'_

_The voices whispered 'do you know the way?'_

_The voices whispered 'can anybody hear me?'_

_The voices whispered 'please, can you hear me?'_

_The voices whispered 'I'm not special'_

_The voices whispered 'but I had dreams'_

_The voices whispered 'can you help me?'_

_The voices whispered 'I don't know the way'_

_The voices whispered 'can you show me?'_

_A voice whispered back. 'That way.' _

_The whispers faded. They were never really much more than that. Echoes in the bone._

Alan woke up. There was a nonsensical rumbling in his ear that, without ever actually changing, became a voice, felt through the bone.

"…ying is that it was the most freaky ass thing I've ever seen, so just saying it was adrenaline isn't going to cut it."

"Gordon?" Alan opened his eyes, and, after the fuzz cleared away, completely failed to see the red head. He _did_ see Virgil, sitting up on the other end of the bed, sitting cross legged with a cell phone on his ear. He was watching Alan though. John was sitting next to him, perched on the side.

He couldn't see Gordon because Gordon was, in fact, behind him. Alan turned his head and nearly bumped his brother's chin. He was stretched out and propped up in the bed against Gordon.

"What're you doing there?" Alan mumbled, feeling pounded flat and like he had a bad case of the flu and a hangover to boot.

"Don't get me wrong; I love you kid," Gordon replied amicably. "But I'm not throwing my back out sitting on a hospital chair for hours on end, considering they were designed by the Marquee De Sade on a bad day."

Alan actually registered about half of this, but decided he was too warm and too comfy to care much. "'Kay, whatever." His thoughts drifted in a nice warm sea for a few moments.

A hand brushed his hair. "You should get some sleep, Alan." John's voice sounded far away.

Sleep…sleep would be nice. No more weird dreams and feelings…

…bad feelings…

_It started with a bad feeling_.

Alan shot upright, or at least tried to. Gordon was quick off the mark and tightened his grip across Alan's upper chest, almost a headlock because his ribs were still in pieces.

"Hold it, hold it!" Gordon hissed in his ear. "Cripes Alan, your ribs can't take any more stress, okay?"

John pinned him down from the other side. "Alan, Alan, calm down."

"Hang on Scott," Virgil said in the phone. "Alan, don't move!"

"Caleb," Alan gasped, for a moment actually fighting the restraints. "Caleb…the dorm…"

"Alan, listen to me," John grabbed his face. "They found him, okay? They found him and he's still alive, okay? Just lay back down. Lay down."

"He's in surgery," Virgil added as Alan allowed Gordon to pull him back against his chest again. "Massive trauma. But if he makes it through the next day he should make it. Nothing we can do, one way or the other, _right_?"

There was the sharpness of an order on that last word. Alan found himself nodding. "Right."

"Right, just so we're clear…what? What?" Virgil snapped up the phone. "What? Oh, okay, hang on…Alan, Scott wants to talk to you."

Gordon was the one who actually took the phone and held it up for Alan. "Scott?" Alan asked wearily. "Where are you?"

"_Close by. This is isn't your fault, Alan._"

That was Scott. Subtle as a bullet to the head. "Yeah…"

"_No, I really want you to listen to me kiddo. It's not your fault. You didn't make those idiots do what they did. You can delude yourself into believing you can control the world all you like, but at the end of the day they're responsible for the choices they made. That's what free will _is_, for better or worse. It means you aren't responsible for what other people do. At best, we're responsible for cleaning up the mess._"

"I know, Scott," Alan sighed. "I really do."

"Listen to the right-hand tyrant," Gordon advised in his ear.

"_Tell Gordon I heard that. Dad's arranging for you to come home. Okay? Won't be long now._"

"Okay. See you soon."

"_Love you, Sprout._"

"Love you too."

Gordon took the phone off him. "Hey Scott, after the whole dorm thing…you think maybe you have some anger issues?"

Alan couldn't hear Scott's actual words, but he didn't sound amused. It was at least worth cracking a smile, anyway.

Gordon hung up and winked at him.

"Alive, huh?" Alan asked Virgil.

"For now."

"Good."

"I disagree," John broke in flatly.

"Me too," Gordon added. "But…there's not much we can do, right Virgil?"

"Right."

"Guys?"

"Yeah, Sprout?"

"What in the _hell_ just _happened_ at that dorm?"

All the Tracy's looked at each other.

The door swung open with a thump, and they all jumped.

"Normally I'd say you were crazy, bull headed, obtuse and stupid, Mr Tracy," Dr Yoong was saying. "But after what just happened I have taken a very personal and logical view of the risks of keeping you all here." The good doctor threw up his hands. "Take him! All of you, get the hell out of my hospital! I don't get paid nearly enough for this. Hello, Alan, how are you feeling? Much pain?" Dr Yoong seemed to swing from manic resignation to quiet professionalism fast enough for everyone else to have a mental tailback.

"Uh, yeah," Alan stammered, still trying to change gears. "I mean, no. Not really."

"His headache is at Defcon Three," John snorted.

"He needs painkillers for the ribs and foot," Virgil raised a sceptical eyebrow.

"His throat is sore and his lungs are scratchy," Gordon added.

"And…if I'm not very much mistaken, I think his fever is spiking," Jeff added, grinning at Alan as he glared.

"You're all ganging up on me," he muttered irritably. They knew just by looking. How did they _do_ that?

"Ah, democracy at work," Dr Yoong said cheerfully. "Sorry kiddo, the masses have spoken." He scribbled down some notations on Alan's chart. "Now that the friendly banter is over with…_what the hell just happened here tonight_?"

"We'd just reached that point when you walked in, doc," Virgil explained. The man was white faced and tight shouldered with puzzlement and anger. "And we're damned if we know, by the way."

"Let's not waste time," Jeff advised, taking the vacant seat next to the bed. "And go straight to the source. The other two are still here, aren't they? It begins and ends with them."

"We might have a slight problem with that, gentlemen," Lady Penelope sashayed in. Parker too, but you couldn't see him behind the huge pink basket.

"Problem?" Jeff repeated.

"I went to check on our erstwhile men of mystery and found them…gone. They rigged a lock to freeze between wards, and escaped down the stairwell the police cordoned off."

"_Gone_? You've got to be kidding me! That cast wasn't even _dry_ yet!" Dr Yoong slapped the chart back down. "I'll get security. Seven frickin' years in medical school and my patients are all escape artists…" he muttered on his way out.

"You know Jeff," Lady Penelope raised her eyebrow at the shutting door. "You could use a man like that doctor."

"We're never going to catch those two, you know," Virgil commented gloomily. "They're too good. They don't get caught."

"Relax, son," Jeff flipped open his phone. "I planned for this little eventuality."

---------------------------------------------------

"My CAR! Those jackasses stole my _car_! I'm going _kill_ them!"

The Winchester brothers, Sam in a cast, stood in the snow laden spot where a black Impala should have been. It had been hard enough to hitch up here, Sam didn't relish the idea of finding a way back.

"They didn't exactly steal it," he bent down with a grunt, and picked up the plastic notice sign while Dean stalked and paced like an angry tiger.

TOMORROW. GREER ST PARK, 8 PM. BE THERE.

In the distance, the rubble of the dorm building still smoked, making the police lights flash in a haze of blue and red fog.

---------------------------------------------------

By some weird ironic twist, some stupid bed ration in the hospital, Caleb and Ivan ended up in the same intensive care ward. Identical tubes, identical scrubs, identical diagnosis. They looked almost like brothers, lying there.

There was a portly but small man sitting by Ivan's bed. His classy suit was rumpled and greasy, there were dark shadows under his eyes. He muttered in Russian most of the day.

He looked up as Alan came in. He didn't say anything as Alan came forward and put a Rubrik's cube next to his son's bedside.

"He likes puzzles," Alan shrugged as he got a questioning look for the odd gift.

Alan hobbled over to Caleb's bed. Caleb had never looked so small. As small as Ivan. Smaller. Ivan had a big heart.

"You bastard," he whispered. "I don't want to save you."

He took out a folded piece of paper. He'd copied it off the internet with his brother's help. The geometric lines of the _kekkai_ were drawn sharp and dark on the white paper.

"…but that's what I do, I guess."

He left it underneath the mattress, and turned to go.

"I do not understand," Ivan's father said softly as Alan exited. "Did you know my son?"

Alan paused. "Sort of."

------------------------------------------------

"I'm gonna shoot 'em. I'm gonna kick their rich boy asses." Dean was muttering to himself.

Sam sighed and shifted his arm in the sling. "I'm this close to doing it to you, man. Will you sit down? They're engineers, okay? Nothing is going to happen to it!"

"Her!"

"Right, her. Whatever! You're acting like a mother with a missing kid."

"Kidnapped. It's my _car_, Sam. No one messes with her."

"What did you expect? Come on, you met the man. Did you really think he'd let you just walk away just like that? They're not exactly normal – in case you didn't notice the big frickin' plane dropping out of the sky."

"Yeah. Who knew, huh?"

"It does explain a lot about them, though."

"Not enough."

They were interrupted by the familiar whine of a classic engine. A shined and buffed Impala rolled up to the park side where the brothers sat, waiting patiently in the frigid night air.

Dean wrenched open the door, ignoring the SUV and pink flying nightmare that pulled up behind it. "You. Out!" He snapped.

Virgil held up his hands. "Anything you say."

Dean looked his precious car over. "What did you do?" Little things had changed. It looked like the chrome had been polished and the upholstery had been fixed up and he was pretty sure his baby was missing a few scratches and minor dings that he'd been planning to take care of when they got a free week. But the real jewel in the crown…he popped the hood.

"Six turbine, jet injection, high octane," Jeff narrated as he came up to peer under the hood. "All built from vintage parts, mind you. I had a feeling you didn't take cash, but let it never be said I don't pay for services rendered."

Sam whistled, impressed. Dean stared at the ultra light speed engine he now owned, territoriality warring with the drool worthy equivalent of a face lift that his car now had. After a serious internal tussle, and a long stare at Tracy while he did so, practicality won out. It would be useful, Dean would never, ever be able to afford it under normal circumstances, and Jeff Tracy was not the kind of man to make a condescending gesture. Dean and Sam, despite so many sacrifices, so rarely received gratitude for what they did; let alone any payment. At the very least, Dean could take the reward as it was meant.

Jeff tilted his head. "Shall we take a walk?"

Lady Penelope came along, the Winchesters noticed. And Scott as well, Dean thought irritably.

"Is there any explanation for what you do?" Scott asked as they reached a cul de sac, and stood there like opposing armies.

"Is there any for what you do?" Sam countered archly. "We've all got secrets."

"And," Jeff held up his hands. "No one is here to go into the deep depths of them. All I want from you is a guarantee that it is over. These things, whatever they are, are not going to keep following my son."

"Do you think they would?" Sam asked, eyes narrowed.

"I'm an engineer. I deal in weights and parts and numbers; all the things that make real life work. Your game is not one I know the rules to."

Dean shook his head. "They shouldn't. We kicked their asses but good. There's no one left to call them."

Jeff considered that. "Good. That's all I needed to know."

"You boys certainly have…interesting records," Lady Penelope added. "You haven't actually lived in one place longer than a year for nearly twenty. Odd happenings seem to follow you…or you seem to find them. I've known a few people in your business – I don't suppose you would like to meet them?"

"We don't do employment and we don't need assistance," Dean glared. "We do just fine on our own." He didn't like that way Scott's eyes passed over San's casted arm at that statement. Territoriality again.

"Yes. I imagine you do," Lady Penelope nodded.

"All the same…" Jeff started and then stopped and frowned. He turned his head toward the trees surrounding them…he could have sworn he heard…

"_Gordon, shhh!"_

"_What was that they just said?"_

"_Shh!"_

"_Uh…guys? I think we've been busted._"

"_Alan, what the hell are you doing out of the car?"_

Jeff covered his eyes with his hand. He really shouldn't be surprised. He could feel Lady Penelope's grin, even as he heard Scott start to mutter under his breath. "I'll go." Scott accidentally-on-purpose brushed by Dean as he went to rip his brothers a new one. He still hadn't forgotten about the shotgun, and likely never would.

"Alright, what do you lot think you're doing?" Scott shouted as he hustled his sheepish brothers out of the bushes and back towards the car.

"Dean," Jeff turned his attention back to the Winchesters. "I know you don't want or need help, but I left my card in your car anyway. Use it if you need it. You and I are in the same business, after all."

Dean shrugged. "If I use it, I'll use it."

They headed back to the cars, where Scott and Gordon were supporting a hobbling Alan, Scott haranguing all the way.

"Hey Alan," Sam surprised himself by going up to the teenager. "Can I ask you something?"

"Yeah?" Alan leaned on one foot.

"On the roof. Why did you jump after Caleb?" Sam ran fingers through his hair. "I mean, it was a brave thing to do, but you didn't owe him anything. He was trying to kill you."

Alan shrugged. "That's just who I am. Letting people die doesn't run in my family, does it? I guess you can only be yourself," Alan grimaced, than added. "Even when it sucks. Especially when it sucks, really."

"Yeah. I guess," Sam replied.

"Alan, come on, in," Scott ordered gently. "It's too cold out here."

"Shotgun!"

"No way in hell! I'm the eldest, I get shotgun."

"I am _so_ not listening to you pansy-ass easy listening all the way to the airstrip," Virgil groaned.

"I refuse to listen to any music written by guys who've been dead for four centuries!"

"We're not listening to the news, Johnny, forget it."

"I'm the sickie, I should pick."

"How about," Jeff broke in after waving to Lady Penelope. "The driver picks the music and the passengers shut their cake holes?"

Dean found himself grinning and snickering with Sam was they made their way to the positively glowing Impala. As they got in, Dean solicitously reached across to get Sam's seatbelt for him as he awkwardly settled his injured arm. "We'll pick up the script for painkillers before we head out."

"I'm okay," Sam protested half-heartedly.

"I know. We're doing it anyway," Dean got his own belt on. "Bright kid."

"Huh?"

"Alan. He's a bright kid," Dean pointed out. "I mean, it's not a bad idea, is it? Sometimes you just gotta be yourself. Even when it sucks."

Sam was silent for a moment. "Yeah. That's true. You have to be," he tried to look at Dean out of the corner of his eye, never willing to let Dean have the complete upper hand. "That Jeff Tracy, he has a way about him." Sam looked wistfully into the mirror. "He's got five sons, and not one of them has even thought about leaving home."

Dean paused to look in the rear view mirror, at the tussling Tracy's loading up into the SUV. He knew Sam wasn't trying to take a jab at an absent Winchester, not really. He just always thought about what could have been. "Yeah...He must have a hell of a method." Well, this was just getting too damn emotional. Dean turned on his cassette player, and a familiar riff started up.

_Living easy, lovin' free  
Season ticket on a one-way ride…_

"It might be worth keeping them in our contact list you know, Dean," Sam pointed out slyly. "They're handy people to have around."

Dean smirked. It was his special, demon hunting, hellish, shit-eating smirk that made grown men tremble. "Yeah, you're right. They helped us and all that jazz. It was nice to get paid." He gave a mock sigh. "I feel kind of bad I swiped that Scott guy's AmEx." He held up a shiny square of plastic.

"Dean!" Sam put his hand over his eyes.

"Hey, they're all so willing to pay," Dean twirled it in his fingers. "Besides this is a _platinum_. We could live in the plaza with this, full services!"

"They'll know it's you!"

Dean's teeth gleamed. "Yeah. I know."

The music wailed on._  
Asking nothing, leave me be  
Taking everything in my stride…_

----------------------------------------------

_Don't need reason, don't need rhyme  
Ain't nothing I would rather do  
_"Mullet rock," Gordon grinned. "We all know how old Dad is, right?"

"Two words, Gordy," John held his two fingers. "Trust Fund."

Alan was gently settled between them. Virgil was doing an odds-evens game with Scott to see who won the front seat.

"Odds, I win," Scott grinned. He looked up as the Impala roared away with it's two dubious heroes.

"They're not so bad, you know, Scott," Virgil said as Scott clambered in. "They're just like us, you know. They just do things…different."  
"I know," Scott grimaced. "I may not like it much, but I know. They're the good guys." There was a pause. Scott smirked. "I feel kind of bad we slipped that GPS locator into the engine battery."

"Yeah," Virgil raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure we need it?"

"I think…it would be good for us to know where they are."

_Going down, party time  
My friends are gonna be there too…_

Alan was gently pulled across Gordon and John somehow, and ended up half reclining across the back seat.

"All set back there?" Jeff called over his shoulder.

"Let's rock and roll," Virgil replied, leaning over into the long seat to make sure Alan was secured.

"I'm going to sleep," Alan mumbled softly. "First person that wakes me is dead meat."

"Uh-huh, good idea," Gordon mumbled rubbing his arms soothingly.

"You're going to have a lot of rest to catch up on," John added seriously.

"Oh? Why?" Jeff glanced in the rearview.

"Alan's got some news," John grinned, and ruffled Alan's hair. "But I guess it can wait."

Alan's eyes slid shut. He thought of Caleb, and Robbie and Double E and Nicholas, who all had serious questions to answer now. He thought of Ivan, and his father sitting by him. He thought of Dean and Sam Winchester, and the whole new world which they traveled in, so similar and so different.

Storms, earthquakes, fires, ghosts, monsters, demons. It didn't really matter what you were saving people from, so long as you _did_ save them.

It was quite a happy thought to sleep on.

_I'm on the Highway to Hell_

_I'm on the Highway to Hell_

-------------------------------------------

The End

(After note: It should be noted that payback is a bitch and the first resort of any self respecting older brother. Which was why, as Dean screamed down the highway at 250 mph and Sam just screamed, they were overtaken by a long, blue streak of light that was travelling much, much faster. Scott could never resist making a point.)


End file.
